


Turn Left - The Veteran's House

by Soledad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, Mary Wasn't Originally A Villain, Village Life Isn't Always Serene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10343415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: What if John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park on that fateful day? Would his and Sherlock's path ever cross? Beta read by my good friend, Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine.





	1. Chapter 1

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**Chapter 01**

He wakes up from a nightmare – the same one as every night.

The one that takes him back to the baking hot Afghan desert, with his team under fire and he desperately trying to shield a wounded soldier with his own body while treating the grievous wound of the much younger man at the same time.

The one from which he always wakes up with a jolt, sweating, distressed and panic-stricken.

He sits up in the unfamiliar, uncomfortable bed, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, Bill Murray's voice calling his name with desperate urgency still echoing in his mind. It takes him a moment to realise that he's safe, a long way from the war.

He is in the bleak little bedsit, provided by the Ministry of Defence, which is worse. _Much worse_.

Back in the war he was Captain John Watson, RAMC, career soldier and Army doctor, a leader of men and saver of lives, either with his weapon or with his scalpel. Here, he's just another poor, wounded veteran in post-rehabilitation care, whose temper flares the nurses endure with condescending pity. A _patient_ , to whom the doctors talk as if he were but a slow-witted child, conveniently forgetting that he went through the same training as them – and then some. He _has_ done the dual specialisation as a surgeon and a GP, after all, and probably has seen more in a week than they've seen in their entire safe, domestic, _dull_ little lives.

He would prefer never to see them again, but he knows he _must_ go through post-rehab if he wants to manage on his own again. He seriously wonders sometimes, though, _how_ he's supposed to do it. His shoulder, almost completely destroyed by the Afghani sniper's high calibre bullet, is still a little stiffer and a great deal weaker than the other one, the fine motor control in his fingers is still unreliable. During rehab, he worked on it diligently, pushing the muscles within their limits to build up strength again, but he's still far from his ultimate goal.

It is a frustratingly slow process, but he _must_ respect his own limitations. He _is_ a doctor, after all (even though medical personnel tend to forget it), he knows what he can do and what he cannot, and the results show. He'll never operate again, but he's reasonably certain that – given enough time – he'll be able to do normal, everyday things again.

Like writing in a legible manner. He doesn't subscribe to the prejudice that all doctors must have messy handwriting. So he practices every day, and the headway is as good as it can be expected.

No, it is the leg that causes him the most trouble. His right leg that not only hurts like hell without a proper reason – the shrapnel wound in his thigh healed completely while he was lying delirious in the field hospital, fighting the infection in his shoulder and the resulting blood poisoning – but it also unexpectedly refuses to hold his weight from time to time, so that he ends up on the floor; especially when he's been stubborn enough _not_ to use his cane.

His living conditions only make things worse. The bedsit is tiny: just _one_ room, maybe half the size of an average living room (one on the smaller end of the scale), with a tiny stove, a bed, a wardrobe about as big as a matchbox and a desk a pre-school kid would find inadequate. Worse than that, he has to share the toilet and the bathroom with the other occupants of the floor. But with a pension that's barely above minimum wage and a small extra allowance for mobility and everyday living, he can't even think of looking for a better flat.

One that isn't right next to a busy railway line, where one can hear the trains go past at all hours of the night. One that is within easy walking distance of at least a corner shop. One from which he wouldn't have to hobble for twenty exhausting minutes to reach the nearest tube station.

To be able to afford such small luxuries, he would need a job – and who in their right mind would hire and invalided-out cripple with severe PTDS?

Flopping back onto his pillow, John tries to calm his breathing. Tries to persuade himself that this dismal hole in which the Army has dumped him after fifteen years of faithful service – far inferior to even his Captain's quarters in Kandahar – means, at least that he is _home_.

Only that London isn't home any more. He has no meaning, no purpose here.

Eventually, unable to stop himself, he begins to weep. He keeps weeping silently until exhaustion overwhelms him again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When he wakes up for the second time – less than an hour and another nightmare later – he sits up on the side of the bed and switches on the bedside lamp. It's still dark outside, but John has given up on sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, he sits quietly, wrapped up in his thoughts, allowing his weary gaze to sweep over the small room.

There's nothing to see, really. Fifteen years in the Army have taught him to travel light, and what few possessions he still has, haven't been taken out of storage yet. He's not willing to bring the mute witnesses of his former life – left over from the time when he still had a life – here, to this place.

To do so would mean that he's accepted his fate; that this is all he'll ever have; and he isn't there yet. He's fighting very hard not to get there, but it's an uphill fight, and he knows it. He studiously ignores the cheap metal cane leaning against the desk and continues to gaze into the distance until the sun finally rises.

Only then does he get up. He pulls a dressing down over his pyjamas and resignedly reaches for the cane to hobble across the room in search for something resembling of breakfast. He finds an apple on the windowsill, next to his RAMC mug, both of which he carries to the desk and starts the morning ritual of making tea. It's a cheap substitute of what tea _should_ be, the low-quality bags he's brought at Tesco's after his most recent therapy session, but it will have to do.

While he's waiting for the kettle to boil, he opens the desk drawer to get his laptop. As he lifts the computer out of the drawer, he briefly touches his only remaining companion: his Army pistol that he shouldn't even have any longer, but Bill and the other lads understood that he needed _something_ to make him feel safe.

Knowing that the Sig Sauer lies there, properly cleaned and polished and ready, does make him feel safe.

Putting the laptop onto the desk and opening the lid, he folds his hands under his chin and looks at the webpage that has automatically loaded. It reads:

**The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

The rest of the page is blank, and he hasn't got the faintest idea _what_ to put down there. Even if he had anything to tell – which he hasn't – the only people who would _understand_ are either in the same desperate situation, or deployed in various war zones and too busy staying alive for such trivialities.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The therapist's office is a subdued room, decorated in magnolia, beige and browns, with two large, white-framed windows in the background, whose beige blinds are half-lowered, giving the room a gloomy atmosphere. They have beige-patterned brown curtains that match the wallpaper, and identical potted plants – half-dead by the looks of them – are standing in the exact middle of each windowsill.

There is a large desk, made of dark wood, in front of one of the windows, facing the room, with a swivelling armchair behind it and a brown desk lamp and a white, marble-looking Neo classical bust on the opposite desktop corners. A square grey rug covers the middle of the room, with identical armchairs facing each other – the same kind as the one behind the desk – for therapist and patient.

The place is cold, almost antiseptic, impersonal, and it makes John very uncomfortable. More than that, actually: it makes him want to scream. He keeps drumming the fingers of his useless hand on the arm of his chair to fight the urge.

The therapist herself – _Ella, her name is Ella Thompson_ , he reminds himself – is an even-mannered black woman who wears her professional detachment with the same ease as she wears her pale rosé skirt suit and the double row of large glass bead strings around her neck. John disliked her instantly at their first meeting, although it's nothing personal. He's come to dislike all medical professionals since he got injured.

At least Ella Thompson _is_ a professional. She may not care for John personally, but he's her patient – and how he's come to _hate_ that word! – and therefore she'll care for him professionally. That's what she got hired for by the Army, after all: to listen to the lost souls who don't have anyone else to talk to.

John has absolutely no desire to _talk_ to her. In fact, he despises the whole situation. But he knows he has to cooperate if he wants to keep his medical licence. Which would be kind of essential, as he won't be able to live off his Army pension alone.

Not in London. Perhaps not even somewhere in the countryside. Not that he had any intention of moving to the countryside.

"How's your blog going?" the therapist asks, startling him out of the circular path of his brooding. John clears his throat and lies.

"Yeah, good," he's determined to cooperate or die trying. "Very good."

Ella recognises the lie, of course; John is a lousy liar, mostly because he doesn't see the point of lying. But if she takes offence at being lied to, she doesn't show it. Instead, she displays that condescending professional understanding all therapists seem to have mastered to perfection and that John hates so much.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" she asks, scribbling something on the notepad on her lap.

John checks it with narrowed eyes.

"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'," he says accusingly.

"And you read my writing upside down," she ripostes calmly, without raising her voice. "Do you see what I mean?"

John smiles awkwardly because she's right. He doesn't trust her – not because he thinks she's untrustworthy but because he _knows_ she won't be able to understand.

No-one who hasn't seen the battlefield could.

He doesn't answer.

She collects herself, clearly preparing for the obligatory encouraging speech. John knows what's coming and fights the urge to hit her.

"John," she begins, "You're a soldier."

 _No shit_ , John thinks, but he manages not to say it out loud. Barely.

"It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life," she continues. "And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will _honestly_ help you."

She clearly believes that. She clearly doesn't know shit. John looks at her with a bitter smile.

" _Nothing_ happens to me," he says flatly.

 _That_ kills the conversation (one-sided though it might be) quite efficiently, but John doesn't mind. These sessions are mandatory but useless, and while he's required to attend them, it isn't his job to make it easy for the therapist.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At least the weather has taken a turn to the better, and he actually enjoys the rare and welcome autumn sunlight as he hobbles across Russell Square Gardens, leaning on his cane heavily.

Until somebody calls his name from behind his back, that is. "John? John Watson?"

Turning around with a frown, he needs a moment to recognise the sender, auburn-haired woman in the charcoal grey business suit who's about to rise from a sunny bench.

"Clara!" he exclaims in pleasant surprise. He's always liked his sister's wife… soon-to-be ex-wife… whatever, even though he hasn't seen her since the wedding.

That was almost six years ago, but Clara Fowles hasn't changed much. She's still as stylish and beautiful as ever, but there is a strange vulnerability in the newly formed lines around her mouth and in the corner of her eyes that the decently applied make-up can't quite cover. John is not surprised. Living with a habitual drinker can do that to a person.

Clara seems genuinely happy to see him and insists that they go to the nearby _Criterion_ for lunch.

"I'm working for the _Fortescue Bank_ as a floor manager," she explains. "It's only two streets away and this is my lunch break, so we should have lunch. My treat."

John tries to protest but she waves off his objections.

"John, leave it. I can afford lunch for two without making a dent in my account. And it's been too long."

John still finds it embarrassing to let her pay – he's quite old-fashioned in such things – but it's true that Clara _can_ afford it… and it _has_ been too long. So he gives in as gracefully as an embittered, crippled war veteran can do.

A few minutes later they are sitting in the _Criterion_ , where John feels that he is standing out of the business crowd like a sore thumb – not that anyone seems to care. Clara, on the other hand, has clearly been born to move in this milieu, and John can't help wondering just how stupid Harry must be to give up _this_ – to give up _her_ – only to creep deeper into the bottle.

Sure, he isn't entirely free of bad habits, either – his gambling did get him into a tight spot from time to time, but that was mostly born of loneliness. Of the bone-deep _human_ need to _belong_. To no longer be alone.

Harry, though… she had a lovely, well-off wife who stuck to her in good and in bad times, who loved her and made her feel like she was something precious… and she let it slip. John would give _anything_ to have somebody like that in his life.

"John?" Clara touches his tightly clenched hand gently with her own soft, well-manicured one. "Are you all right?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, fine, why?" He tries to remember whether she was talking to him for a while – and fails.

"You've zoned out on me," Clara's pale blue eyes are warm and concerned; she always cared for him, more than his own sister. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

This is the first time somebody has asked him with genuine interest, so John does just that. Only the bare facts, of course, there's no need to upset his gentle-hearted soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law with the gory details, but he does tell her the truth. About his injury, resulting in the loss of both his distinguished careers. About his living conditions – _if_ that can be called 'living'. About the useless but mandatory psychotherapy.

Clara listens to him with shocked compassion. What he tells her is way beyond her field of experience, but at the very least she's _trying_ to understand.

"Won't Harry be able to help?" she finally asks. "At least until you've settled down again?"

"Yeah, 'cause _that_ 's likely to happen," John replies cynically.

Clara grins at him in sudden understanding. "The two of you had a row?"

"Several epic ones, until she stopped visiting me at the hospital," John admits ruefully, and for the first time since they ran into each other, Clara laughs.

"You are both too stubborn for your own good."

"No," John corrects. "We just have very different priorities. She disapproves of my joining the Army and getting shot; and I disapprove of her drinking and walking out on her wife. After that, there isn't much common ground left."

Clara nods in understanding, and for a moment they concentrate on their lunch which is better than anything John's eaten for a very long time. Perhaps it is the company – the fact that he doesn't have to eat it alone, in his bleak little bedsit… or in a hospital room.

"What are you planning to do now?" she then asks.

"I honestly don't know," he admits with a helpless shrug. "Perhaps I can find a job as a GP – I did do that kind of work in Afghanistan a lot, between field missions."

"Treating snotty noses, prescribing antibiotics and flushing waxy ears?" she asks, raising a finely trimmed eyebrow. "You will be bored to death within a month."

"It isn't that I'd have a lot of options," he explains grimly. "At the moment, I couldn't even work as a paramedic. I don't have the strength to perform CPR for more than a few minutes without relief, due to the damage to my shoulder."

"Is there any chance of that healing?" Clara has no medical background, but even a sensitive layperson can guess what that would mean for a surgeon.

John shrugs again. "I don't know. I'll have to wait months, perhaps even years to see if the fine motor function in my fingers will ever return – right now, I don't even have any feeling in them sometimes. But even if it does return, as long as I have this bloody tremor in my hand, I won't be allowed to come anywhere near an operation theatre again."

"Does the tremor come from the injury?" Clara asks.

"From the nerve damage; _or_ from the PTDS; or from both… it's hard to tell," John admits. "In either case, I'll never be the same again."

Her gentle, beautiful eyes are clouded over with compassion and – unlike with the doctors and the nurses – it doesn't bother him because with her, it's genuine. She honestly cares about him, about his future… such as it is.

But she has a life of her own to lead, now that Harry no longer weighs her down, and she glances at her watch apologetically.

"My break is nearly over; but I do want to stay in touch. Do you have a phone? We could exchange numbers."

"I don't think that will be necessary," John pulls out the phone Harry had pressed on him during her last visit at the hospital. "I believe your number is still saved on this thing.

Clara recognises the phone, of course, and her eyes are darkening with sorrow and hurt. "She gave you her phone?"

The ' _She was awfully eager to get rid of any reminder of me_ ' hangs between them in the air, unspoken.

"She does have the odd moment of generosity," John replies, deliberately misinterpreting his sister's gesture.

"As long as you're able to pay for the calls," Clara returns with brutal honesty, and John loves her for that. He's sick and tired of people walking on eggshells around him.

"In any case," she continues, "that will make it easier to reach you," she waves to the waiter to pay the bill and then rises. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to go now. Duty calls. Don't be a stranger," she then adds, kissing him on the cheek, and then she's gone, leaving a faint smell of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

John stares after her for a moment, wondering why all the best ones are always gay – well, lesbian in this particular case – or taken… or both. Then he, too, gets to his feet and leaves the _Criterion_.

He narrowly misses the big, chubby, good-natured man carrying a medical kit who comes in with the second wave of the lunch crowd.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Back to the miserable little foxhole he still refuses to think of as 'home', he takes out his laptop again. So far, he's made a total of 3 entries: one on December 14 with the title 'Nothing" and no actual words in the body of the blog; one on the next day titled 'Pointless', with the declarations _Nothing happens to me_ , and a third one in this very morning, asking the world at large: _How do I delete this_?

Not that he'd believe in the usefulness of writing a blog, but if doing so gets Ella out of his hair, he can make a meaningless post from time to time.

Carefully, with two fingers and favouring his injured shoulder as much as he can, he types into the subject line: _Happy now?_ And into the body of the blog: _Look, Ella, I'm writing my blog_ – and presses the post button before he can change his mind. Ella isn't going to like that, but at least she can't say that he isn't cooperating.

At the same moment his email _ping_ s, and the phone buzzes an alert in his pocket simultaneously. John opens his email and stares at the notification in the corner of the screen,

 _Comment on your entry 'Pointless'_ , it says. Surprised, John scales back to the entry… and his heart jumps into his throat at once. The comment is from Bill Murray. His former Army nurse. The one who saved his life – a deed he still doesn't know whether he should be grateful or bitter about.

 _Hi Cap_ , the message says. I _tried emailing you, but it bounced back. How's things? I'm in London for the next two months. Do you fancy meeting up?_  
  
For a moment John isn't entirely sure that he wants to meet up with Bill Murray, despite the fact that the man _did_ save his life. Bill was part of his _former_ life; he knew _Captain Watson_ , the battlefield trauma surgeon who used to operate under enemy fire calmly and competently, not this… this _wreck_ he's become.

And yet he knows he won't be able to resist. _Particularly_ because Bill used to know the _real_ him, the man none of his old acquaintances in London ever got to see.

The man he isn't any longer and will never be again.

He doesn't want to answer via blog comment, though. Outsiders don't need to follow _every_ aspect of his life. Fortunately, he has Bill's number saved to Harry's phone. Still unsure if that's truly a good idea, he dials the number.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They meet up in an old-fashioned little pub John knows from his university days. It's one of those places tourists never find, which is why he likes it. There are slot machines in the background and the telly above the counter shows some insignificant football play, a re-run from the previous week, but the volume is low enough to provide a pleasant, nondescript background noise.

Bill Murray doesn't look any different than he did a couple of months ago when they last met. He's a somewhat stockily built man in his mid-thirties, with curly blond hair and pale blue eyes, his features somewhat roughly-hewn, as if cut with an axe, although he's the mildest-mannered soldier – well, Army nurse – John's met in the fifteen years of his active duty.

He also seems genuinely happy to see John, It's a relief that he takes in John's current state with a single look (he _has_ seen the wound in all its horrible technicolour glory first-hand, after all) and ignores it for the rest of their get-together. Even though his experienced eye seems to notice how John keeps clenching and unclenching his left hand.

Instead, he treats John with a detailed report about his recent wedding, including photos – real ones, not the sorry substitute on his phone, although he does have those, too – provides John with the latest gossip about their shared Army friends, and finally with the news about Major Sholto, which is more than a little depressing.

It's a shame that something like that had to happen to such a fine officer, but life is seldom fair. John could sing a ballad of his own about _that_.

Only when they've discussed everything belonging to the past, only then does Bill ask about John's future plans. John gives him the same answer he gave Clara. And just like Clara, Bill finds the idea of Captain John Watson, RAMC, treating runny noses and ingrown toenails hard to imagine.

"That's not the John Watson I know," he comments, trying to go for a joke.

John doesn't look at him.

"Yes, perhaps I'm not the John Watson any more," he replies bitterly. Then, after a lengthy silence, he turns the tables. "What about you?"

Bill shrugs, looks to the side, a little embarrassed.

"I've finished my tour while you were in rehab and am getting an honourable discharge within the month. Then I'm gonna qualify myself as a civilian paramedic."

The news surprises John more than anything he's heard since his return to London.

"You're leaving the Army?" He always thought Bill was as dedicated a soldier as he himself.

Bill shrugs again. "Yeah, I never thought I would give it up voluntarily, but… the missus doesn't want to become a widow before due time, and I can understand that."

John can understand it, too… theoretically. He can't imagine giving up the very purpose of his life just to please someone else, though. But again, he as to meet a woman yet who'd be worth such a drastic step.

Well… who _would have been_ worth it. The choice was taken out of his hand in the moment that bullet ripped through his shoulder.

He doesn't ask Bill if he has any regrets. He's happy for his old comrade to have found such a special someone… even if it makes him feel the weight of his loneliness even more. Bill has made his choice and is obviously content with it, and that is what counts.

They talk for another hour or so, the topic moving on to football (Bill, mostly) and to rugby, which is John's favourite sport. Then they part company, promising to stay in touch, now that Bill is back in England for good – and then John is alone again.

Still, meeting up with Bill helped to lift his spirits ever so slightly, and he decides to do something about his so-called future, too.

Job-hunting is added to the required activities of the upcoming week.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
I realise that some things I say here about John's career and future probably don't match the reality of the British health system. Neither does a lot of what it's said in the show itself, according to the very knowledgeable wellingtongoose, so I'm at least in good company. Chalk it up for the necessary dramatic effect. *g*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The details from John's CV are taken from "The Blind Banker", together with a few lines of dialogue. The part about the rugby lads are from John's online blog. By considering John's financial situation I based some things on wellingtongoose's excellent article. Only very loosely, though. Just as much as the story needed it.  
> Mr Fortescue and his pompous office have been borrowed from "A Pocketful of Rye" by Dame Agatha Christie – for the simple reason that I 'cast' Peter Davison to 'play' a necessary banker character in this story, and Davison once played Lance Fortescue in the TV-version of that novel. So yes, everything that seems familiar is _meant_ to seem familiar.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**Chapter 02**

The next week finds John in a small, shared GP's practice, somewhere halfway between Ella's office and his miserable housing. It was actually Ella who recommended the place to him, knowing they were looking for a doctor because one of their colleagues was going on maternity leave, and the administrator of the practice, now sitting across from John behind her desk, is an old school friend of Ella's.

She's a lovely woman, this Doctor Sarah Sawyer, despite being a bit harried-looking. She's about John's age, or not much younger, with the potential to be beautiful, but that potential is thwarted by loneliness and too much work, apparently, if the fine lines around her eyes and in the corners of her mouth are any indication.

She studies John's CV carefully, her eyes widening in surprise here and there – especially when reading through Page #2, where the special qualifications are listed. The ones he needed when on retrieval missions. The ones he won't need here, or in any other GP's ever again. He's seriously overqualified for the job, and they both know it.

Doctor Sawyer returns her attention to Page #1, where the basic skills and proficiencies of an emergency doctor are listed.

"It says here that you're able to recognise and give immediate and appropriate treatment in a wide range of medical and surgical conditions," she says and continues reading the printed CV out loud. "Including myocardial infraction, acute coronary syndrome, pulmonary embolus and Sickle Cell Crisis, deep vein thrombosis, acute asthma attack, severe exacerbation of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetic keto-acidosis, community and hospital acquired pneumonia, seizures, poisoning or overdose, acute abdomen, post-operative oliguria hypotension and post-operative infections."

"Yes," John answers simply. Every junior doctor with basic emergency training is supposed to recognise those symptoms. _Treating_ them properly is another cup of tea.

"You do realise this is just locum work," she says a bit uncertainly.

John tries to smile at her but it doesn't really work. He's too nervous, his left hand clenches into a fist involuntarily. "No, that's fine."

He _needs_ this job desperately. He's not giving up on working in London just yet. Not without a fight. But his savings are in long-term investments and he won't be able to get them without considerable financial losses. He didn't expect to get shot and be invalided out of the Army, after all.

"You're, um ... well, you're a bit over-qualified," she points out the glaringly obvious.

John tries the thing with the smile again; this time it works better. "Er, I could always do with the money."

And isn't _that_ the understatement of the decade! If he weren't aiming for disarming honesty, he'd die of embarrassment. Fortunately, she seems to be charmed by his winning smile. Good. Apparently, he hasn't lost his touch completely.

She's leafing through her papers. "Well, we've got two away on holiday this week, and one's just left to have a baby," she clears her throat apologetically. "Might be a bit mundane for you."

John already knows about the vacancies from Ella, of course, and is desperate to get the bloody job, so he brings forth the legendary Watson charm again.

"Er, no; mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works."

Which is true, but she clearly isn't buying. Looks down at his CV again.

"It says here you were a soldier," she says softly.

" _And_ a doctor," John returns promptly. "A very good one. Still am, in fact."

She seems taken aback by his answer, and perhaps his tone was stronger than simply necessary, but he's sick and tired of his fellow doctors not taking him seriously. It's no excuse for taking out his frustration on her, though. In fact, it's definitely a stupid thing to do, as he's trying to get hired by her.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he mutters, embarrassed. "I'm usually not his rude. Chalk it up to nerves."

Again, she clearly isn't buying it – the part with the nerves, that is – bit she lets it slide graciously enough.

"Anything else you can do?" she asks instead, and while it is teasing, at least it isn't mean-spirited at all.

"Well," John replies, with a sudden return of his sense of humour, "I learned the clarinet at school."

"Oh!" She laughs. "Well, I look forward to it!"

For an absurd moment, John imagines himself giving a concert at the reception of the surgery; then he laughs, too. For the moment, things look just a little bit better.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And for a while things _do_ take a turn for the better. He quickly becomes a fixture in the surgery; with his level of experience, there's very little he hasn't seen, and he's easy-mannered, so both his patients and his fellow doctors soon become fond of him. The work is dull, true, but he's had enough excitement for a lifetime recently, and right now the dullness is almost welcome. He's still healing, both mentally and physically, and now that he's got a purpose again – such as it is – he's willing to take the time to actually let it happen.

The only remaining problem is his living conditions. The place may be called a one-bedroom flat (ha!), but is barely more than a bed-sit, really, and a lousy one, even for that. Especially the thin walls make any restful sleep almost impossible. As if his own nightmares weren't enough, he's forced to live through the ones of the other wounded veterans on his floor, too.

 _And_ on the floor above him.

He's used to surviving on very little sleep, but after a while the near complete lack of it gets to him nonetheless.

And so it happens that after a couple of weeks Sarah Sawyer walks into the surgery for her shift to find quite a crowd – not to mention commotion – in the waiting room. Their harried-looking receptionist is looking up apologetically at the first person in a queue of patients waiting to speak to her.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she says. Someone in the queue sighs pointedly. "But we haven't got anything now 'til next Thursday.

The woman at the front of the queue turns aside with an exasperated look on her face. Sarah can't really blame her. It's flu season again, and even with Doctor Watson's help, the surgery is chronically understaffed and overcrowded. Knowing _that_ doesn't help the patients, of course.

"This is taking ages," someone complains.

"Er, sorry," the receptionist replies timidly.

"What's the point of making an appointment if they can't even stick to it?" a woman in the background mutters angrily, and several other patients voice their agreement.

Sarah walks to the receptionist's desk. "What's going on?" she asks. The receptionist – Mandy – looks up to her in relief.

"That new doctor you hired – he hasn't buzzed the intercom for ages," she explains quietly.

Sarah is surprised. That doesn't sound like John Watson at all. He's usually a good, reliable doctor; something must have happened to throw him off-kilter like that.

"Let me go and have a word," she says and Mandy nods gratefully.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Excuse me," Sarah says to the queue as she walks past them, ignoring their protests. She goes to Doctor Watson's consulting room and knocks on the door. "John?"

She waits a few seconds but gets no reply, so she knocks again. "John?"

When there's still no reply, she opens the door and looks inside. Doctor Watson is sitting behind the desk, his head propped up on one fist, and is fast asleep… even snoring gently. There are dark smudges under his eyes, his face is hollow and appears more deeply lined than before. Something definitely must have happened, but Sarah is fairly certain she won't learn what it was.

She crosses the small room and carefully pats his shoulder. "Doctor Watson? Your patients are getting… well, _impatient_."

Afterwards John is mortally embarrassed, of course, and when – much later – he comes out of his consulting room, and puts his coat on, he'd like nothing more than slip out of the surgery unnoticed. But that would be a coward's way out; and besides. He owes his colleagues an apology. So he walks over to Sarah who is standing behind the reception desk, checking tomorrow's duty roster. He clears his throat awkwardly.

"Um, looks like I'm done. I thought I had some more to see."

"Oh, I did one or two of yours," Sarah replies nonchalantly. John feels the blood rush into his face again.

"One or two?" he repeats. Somehow he has the feeling that there might have been more.

"Well, maybe five or six," Sarah admits with a shrug.

John is so embarrassed he can't even look at her, so he chooses to examine the tops of his shoes instead. "I'm sorry. That wasn't very professional of me."

He hopes she's not going to fire him. He's just begun to breathe a bit easier, thanks to his locum pay; he'd hate to lose that.

"No," she agrees. "No, not really," then her eyes soften a bit. "What happened, John? You've been so reliable, until now."

John is still avoiding her eyes. "I had, um, a bit of a late one."

"Oh, right," she raises an inquisitive eyebrow. "And what were you doing to keep you up so late?"

It takes John a moment to realise what she's hinting at; it makes him very sad.

"It wasn't a date," he clarifies.

He wishes with all his heart that it had been. Shagging someone half the night would have been infinitely better than trying to talk the wheelchair-bound veteran in the flat above him out of shooting himself in the head… and failing.

He spent the rest of the night talking to the police and to the others on his floor, not to mention looking for a good place to hide his own illegally-kept pistol, just in case the authorities decided to search the flat of the other veterans, too. Where was _one_ illegal weapon, there could be other ones as well.

But he's not about to tell _that_ this gentle-faced woman who's looking at him expectantly.

"And I don't have one tonight," he says instead.

It is perhaps the cheesiest pick-up line he's ever used, but – surprisingly enough – it works.

"Want one?" she asks coyly.

"Is that an invitation?" he asks back.

She grins. "Sounds like one to me."

He grins back at her feeling a lot better all of a sudden. "Then I accept. When and where?"

"Right now, at the _Tapas Bar_?" she suggests. "I'm long overdue for dinner; what about you?"

"Starving," he admits, still baffled a bit by this unexpected turn of events. _Oh good grief_ , he thinks, _I've just pulled!_

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so it begins between them. They have a few dates in the following weeks, mostly dinner dates and even the occasional shag in Sarah's place. It isn't terribly romantic, mostly of the 'friends with benefits' kind of relationship, but it is _normal_ , and it distracts him from the profound bleakness of his life.

It eases his conscience that Sarah obviously doesn't expect more from their non-relationship, either. Unlike him, she's way too busy for anything more; and, unlike many women, she values her independence too much to bind herself. Not yet, in any case.

So, for the moment, it's the perfect match.

John even gets in touch with the rugby lads from Blackheath again. Their first get-together is surprisingly pleasant. They haven't changed in all the years in-between. Still downing pints like they're in the twenties. Still all taking the mickey out of each other. None of them mentions his leg, so John decides to do it again. Even if Ella isn't happy about him missing one of their therapy sessions in favour of the pub night.

He doesn't care. Meeting the rugby guys is the second event he actually mentions in that pitiful excuse of a blog (the first one was telling the world about him getting a job), even if it leads to a drunken call from Harry, with tearful attempts to make up for most recent mistakes. They even meet in person for the first time since John was released from the hospital, and only now, in full control of his senses, does John realise the destruction the alcohol has wrought upon his sister.

There are only two years between them, but now Harry looks a decade older. She was always on the slim side, but now she's almost painfully thin. She never tanned easily, but now her skin has taken on that unhealthy pallor so characteristic for habitual drinkers. Her eyes have grown large in her face and even her hair has lost its lustre, becoming faded and brittle.

And yet John knows the loss of physical attractiveness isn't the reason why Clara's left Harry. Clara isn't a shallow person and she loved – still loves, John is fairly sure about that – Harry very much. She simply couldn't bear watching Harry destroying herself.

John understands that. It isn't something _he_ can deal with well, either. Of course, in his case the memories of their father make things even harder to bear. So he doesn't suggest a second meeting any time, soon. It might not be the nicest thing of him, but there's only so much he can deal with at the moment, and Harry's drinking is well beyond _that_ margin.

True to her word, Clara calls him from time to time. The intervals are irregular, but that's good… this way, the calls always are a pleasant surprise. Sometimes he thinks Clara is the only person he really cares for – and it is apparently mutual. The marriage of Harry and Clara may be over, but Clara is still showing interest for _his_ future – supposing he still _does_ have one.

Therefore it isn't surprising that Clara is the one who's trying to help him find better accommodation. As she works for a bank, she's naturally thinking in financial terms.

"It is a slim chance, of course," she explains during one of their semi-regular meetings at the _Tapas Bar_ , "but we could try getting you a small loan based on your savings. Just enough to pay the first six months of rent, should you find a more acceptable flat. Perhaps you'll manage to find permanent work in the meantime."

John seriously doubts _that_ ; and, if he wants to be honest, he isn't even sure if he _wants_ a permanent job. Locum work is relatively well paid, because locum doctors have flexible working hours – meaning that they can be called in at impossible times – and he likes the fact that he can choose to work at a certain time or not. Besides, his savings are on the meagre side; bailing Harry out of trouble had emptied them several times in the past… before Clara would come into her life. He has the feeling that now that Clara has left, it would be his dubious honour to do so again.

But Clara is so eager to help him find a better place to live that he doesn't have the heart to flat out reject the idea. So he gives in, despite his doubts, and Clara whips out her phone to make them an appointment with Mr Fortescue personally. She gets them one for two days later, and that's it.

Clara accompanies him to the office of Mr Fortescue, for which John is grateful. He's never been comfortable in such places, so it's good to have an insider on his side; and one in an important position at that.

They go through to inner office, where the junior employees work (and pretend not to see them), through the waiting room, where the more important clients are sitting (they give John unfriendly looks, since he obviously _isn't_ important at all and yet is given preference to them), and finally to a small, up-to-date anteroom, where Mr Fortescue's special PA works. Clara checks their appointment with the glamorous blonde, and they're allowed into the holy of the holies – Mr Fortescue's office – without further delay.

Which only proves Clara's position of importance within the bank hierarchy.

Mr Fortescue's office is a large room – a gleaming expanse of shiny wooden floor, on which expensive oriental rugs are dotted… the genuine items, not some cheap copies. It is delicately panelled in pale wood, and there are a couple of huge stuffed chairs, upholstered in pale buff leather. Behind an oversized sycamore desk, the centre and focus of the room, is sitting Mr Fortescue himself, working on something on his computer with a frown.

Mr Fortescue is less impressive than he should be to match the room, but he's obviously doing his best. He's a large, somewhat flabby man, with slicked-back hair that might once have been ash blond but is now mostly grey and visibly thinning. Pale, almost watery blue eyes, a broad, bloodless mouth and a relatively large nose complete the strangely colourless impression of him. Those pale eyes, however, are shrewd and observant, revealing that he hasn't come to his current wealth and position by inheritance alone.

John doesn't know much about tailored suits, but he's fairly sure that the dark three-piece one with the subtle windowpane check and the double-breasted waistcoat the banker is wearing is a _Grieves & Hawkes_ model. One of his more pretentious professors at medical school preferred tailored clothing, much to his students' amusement, so they all learned to recognise a bespoke suit. Like Professor Bell, the banker leaves the last button of his waistcoat open, to accommodate his extending waistline, but it still looks good on him and matches the floral-patterned red tie and pocket square. The golden tiepin is clearly just for show, as the tie tucks into the waistcoat, the wearing of which is made necessary by the man's choice of using a pocket watch, the golden chain of which is threaded through his buttonhole.

He must have been reasonably handsome in his younger years, in a rather harmless way. Now, at the age of fifty-something, he still looks presentable enough, but there's nothing even close to harmless about him. He's clearly a shark, and John suddenly becomes even more doubtful about their visit. Clara might be carefully optimistic about the outcome; John is not. Not anymore. Not now that he's actually _seen_ the infamous Mr Fortescue.

It is Clara who presents her boss their case, using a language probably only people working in the financial world could hope to understand. John certainly doesn't. But he can see the honest effort his soon-to-be ex-sister-in-law has put into the presentation. She is earnest and factual, not trying to appeal to Mr Fortescue's compassion (which would be likely a lost case), pointing out instead the safety of the potential loan and the guarantees that it would be paid back in time.

Unfortunately, John's meagre savings cannot support her claim fully, and he can see that Mr Fortescue spots that fact immediately. The banker cuts into Clara's arguments and tears them to pieces mercilessly.

"You cannot seriously expect me to grant a loan on the basis of such miserable guarantees, Ms Fowles," he says with a cruel little laugh. "This is a bank, not a charity fund. Perhaps you should apply to one of those to help your… _friend_."

"Doctor Watson is my brother-in-law," Clara corrects coldly. She's never been one to back off easily. "Not that _that_ would be of any importance when deciding about a loan request."

"Oh, I wouldn't say _that_ ," Mr Fortescue replies smugly. "Based on what I know about your ex-wife, the Watson family isn't one I'd willingly trust with my money. Good day, Ms Fowles."

And with that, they're dismissed. Clara is fuming, but John is simply resigned. He's never been so humiliated in his life… unfortunately, it seems to be a recurring event lately.

"Leave it be, Clara," he says tiredly. "The man may be an arsehole, but in a manner he's right. I'm broke; I wouldn't give myself a loan if I were him, either. I guess I'll have to get used to the rat-trap in which I live."

"Nonsense, there _must_ be a way!" Clara protests, the proverbial little cogwheels clearly on overdrive in her pretty head. "What about the house?"

John stares at her in confusion. "What house?"

"The one in Hampshire that you inherited four years ago from that distant uncle of yours, what was his name again? Garbler or Gabler or whatnot?"

John is honestly surprised by the shift in their conversation. "How do _you_ now about that? I've completely forgotten about the house myself."

"Harry wanted me to see into it," Clara admits. "She wanted to have it sold when she was broke, but as you are named as the sole heir, there was nothing she could do. Still, if it is in any acceptable shape, maybe you can try selling it."

"I have no idea," John confesses. "I've never seen it; never been to that godforsaken little village where it stands, either."

"Nether Wallop," Clara supplies absent-mindedly. "Not the most ideal location, granted, but some people are daft about what they call _picturesque little places_. And it is a real estate in any case. It should have a certain worth. We ought to take a look."

" _We?_ " John echoes and she shrugs.

"I haven't got any plans for the weekend. I can drive you to Hampshire. Or we can take the train."

"No," John is touched, he truly is, but he can't expect her life to rotate around _him_ , now that she finally made the all-deciding step and separated from Harry. "You've done more than enough, Clara, well beyond the demands of friendship. Including making a fool of yourself in the eyes of that godawful boss of yours. No need to sacrifice you weekend on my behalf. I still have a few old buddies in town; one of them surely will drive me, should I decide to take a look."

"It wouldn't be any hardship," Clara argues. "I do like spending time with you, John."

"And I with you," he replies. "But you shouldn't burden yourself with concerns about me, love. I belong to your past; you need to look into the future. To live your own life, without any broke Watsons holding you back."

"And what about _your_ life?" she asks with surprisingly shiny eyes.

In a moment she'll break out in tears, and John would hate to be the reason for her tears. Harry took up that role often enough.

"I don't have one," he replies simply. "Not anymore. And it's time for me to manage my continuing existence on my own."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Clara protests, of course, but he remains unmoved, and for the next couple of weeks they barely have any contact, save for a few text messages. John is dangerously close to giving up and doesn't want her to realise that. She's got enough grief with her upcoming divorce, doesn't need another Watson to weigh her down.

John's tentative non-relationship with Sarah drifts off to nothing in the meantime, but he can't make himself care. She deserves better than him anyway – someone who'd actually like her for herself, not just use her as temporary comfort, even though the feeling is mutual. Of course, their break-up – to call it that for the lack of any better word – doesn't make his working at the surgery any easier, so when another crippled veteran shoots himself to death in his building John quits his job and for a while he simply _exists_ , hobbling around in London, trying to spend as little time in his bed-sit as possible. It isn't a solution, he knows, but since he isn't planning to work again any time soon, at least he can avoid going to Ella.

Bill Murray, the only constant in his current existence, watches his slow downward slide with genuine concern.

"You can't go on like this, Cap," he says; they're sitting in St James's Park and John is feeding his vinegar-flavoured chips to the already overfed pigeons. "Is there really nothing you could do to free yourself from that fetid hole?"

They both know that if John stays there, one day it will be him putting a bullet into his own head with the illegal firearm he absolutely doesn't possess. And for the first time since that frustrating visit to the _Fortescue Bank_ , he thinks of the house again.

"It depends," he says. "What do you think about a trip to Hampshire?"

"Whatever gets you out of your rat-rap, I'm game," Bill, loyal souls as he is, replies promptly. "What is in Hampshire?"

"A village named Nether Wallop," the mere idea makes John grimace in distaste; London is the place he always wanted to live, and he generally despises country life. But sometimes needs must… "Where I happened to inherit a house from an eccentric uncle. A distant one I never even met. Clara suggested that I should try selling it."

"That's actually a good idea… assuming it isn't a complete ruin," Bill agrees. "So, you want to take a look?"

"If I manage to find the actual address, then yeah, I do."

"Good. Call me if you've found it, and we'll go. It might be fun."

John very much doubts that, but at least it's going to be something _different_. And Bill has always been a great travelling companion. Perhaps a change of scenery will do him some good, after all.

Not much else does.

"All right," he says. "As soon as I have it, I'll call."

~TBC~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr Ponsonby's office has been inspired by the solicitor's office from "The Moving Finger" by Dame Agatha Christie. You are welcome to guess the casting choices for the individual characters – beyond the obvious, that is. *g*  
> Nether Wallop is a really existing place, which served as St Mary Mead in one of the Miss Marple TV-adaptations. There is indeed a law firm in Stockbridge, situated in _Jasmine House_ – I just changed the names for obvious reasons. Most details about the village and Stockbridge are a result of Wikipedia research, although I did take a bit of creative freedom here and there.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**Chapter 03  
**   
In the end it is Clara again who finds out the address of the house. She is also the one who finds the only estate agent in Nether Wallop, to whom John could turn to have his house sold.

"It is a certain Mr Thomas Ponsonby," she hands John a printout with the man's address and credentials. "He has his office in Stockbridge, at The Courtyard – apparently the only estate agent in the area. You cannot miss it."

John shakes his head in amazement. "You are a miracle worker, do you know it?"

"Not really," she replies, laughing. "He just happens to have had some business with Mr Fortescue a couple of years ago, so the first internal search brought up his name."

"What a coincidence," says John slowly.

He doesn't think it really _is_ one, though, and Clara spots it at once.

"You don't believe in coincidences, do you?"

"Oh, I do," John answers, old Star Trek memories resurfacing as he quotes _Deep Space Nine_ 's infamous Cardassian tailor. "Coincidences happen all the time. I just don't _trust_ coincidences. They are… well, too _convenient_ to be trusted."

"And _you_ are grossly paranoid," she counters, laughing.

"That, too," he admits. "Spending years in various war zones can do that to a man. But it isn't always a bad thing, you know. It can help keeping one alive."

"For which we're all grateful," she kisses him on the cheek. "Keep me informed. You're still my favourite brother-in-law."

"I'm your _only_ brother-in-law… also, soon ex," he points out.

"Never!" she assures him. "I may be getting a divorce, but I won't give up an old friend, no matter what."

It is touching, it really is, and John doesn't know what to answer. Sharing his feelings is not something he _does_ , which is why his sessions with Ella remained so spectacularly useless. Well… aside from her incompetence, that is.

Fortunately for him, her phone rings in that very moment, and she has to run, tossing an air-kiss at him on her way out, for which John is grateful. He doesn't want to lose her as a friend, either.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Two days later John is sitting in Bill Murray's car – a weather-beaten Land Rover that Bill obviously adores and his wife most likely hates –, heading to Stockbridge. Having looked it up on the Internet, he knows that it's a civil parish and conservation area in West-Hampshire, some sixty-five miles from London, and that it's _really_ small, with an area of 1,333 acres and a little less than seven hundred inhabitants.

Not that he really cares. He isn't about to move in, for God's sake. He just wants to find that estate agent and have his house – a house he hasn't even seen yet and frankly, has no real interest in seeing – sold, so that he can remain in London until he figures out what to do with himself.

Bill has also done his homework regarding their route and chose to take the A30 road, which goes through the town and once carried most of the traffic from London to Dorset, South Somerset, Devon and Cornwall in the South West. While it is true that the A303 dual carriageway would provide a flatter, unimpeded route to the north by Andover, Bill prefers a more direct approach. And the Land Rover can easily manage the steeper route.

They could manage the sixty-five-mile distance within the hour if they wanted, but neither of them sees any reason to hurry. John subconsciously wants to put off the moment when he'd have to face any associate of the ill-remembered Mr Fortescue as far as humanly possible, and Bill has always been a cautious driver. So they travel at a leisurely speed, exchanging old stories and whatever news they happen to have about old comrades, and John almost feels like his old self again.

 _Almost_. If it weren't for the cane wedged between him and the car door.

Even so, it isn't midday yet when they arrive in Stockbridge. Bill pulls up the Land Rover at a place called The Courtyard and turns into the parking lot reserved for the clients of _Jasmine House_. The house is apparently the seat of some big, joint law firm named _Parker & Brockman_, but the security guard is friendly enough to guide them to the back of the building, where they find the office they're looking for: _Ponsonby & Ponsonby, Estate Agents._

It is clearly a small business, compared with the law firm occupying the front of the house. The outer office is about the size of John's bed-sit, and yet this has to serve as the working place of three people. Near the front door, the only source of natural illumination, an elderly man is sitting on a stool, writing slowly and laboriously. He looks like an escapee from some Dickens novel, with his bent back, mottled black jacket, shiny oversleeves and small, round eyeglasses that seem in danger to lose their precarious balance on the tip of his long, pointy noise.

On the other side of the tiny office a vivacious redhead in her late thirties is typing away on her computer with impressive speed. Her thick, untamed mane is twisted into a haphazard knot on the back of her head and she's wearing those fashionable half-glasses one only wears for reading or writing. There's also a small, cheeky-looking boy of about ten, playing some video game on his phone – John can't even guess whom he might belong to.

The old man doesn't seem to notice the arrival of the potential clients, and the boy doesn't seem to care. The redhead, however, rises from behind her desk with a delighted grin and comes forth to greet them.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?"

She's a head taller than John (which still isn't very much) and even an inch or two taller than Bill, with a simple, open face and a voice that appears unnecessarily loud in the small room; but perhaps she's used to speaking loudly because the old man is deaf. John likes her at once; she reminds him of some of the no-nonsense nurses he used to work with.

"We'd like to consult Mr Ponsonby about selling a house if he's available," he replies. "Can you ask him if he has time for us, Miss…?"

"Noble. Donna Noble," she introduces herself. "I'm Mr Ponsonby's secretary. And yes, he does have time right now. Come with me, please."

She doesn't bother to ask her boss in the first place; she clearly has him firmly under her thumb. John and Bill exchange identical grins and follow her into Mr Ponsonby's inner office, which has the agreeable mustiness of a long-established firm. Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled with names John has never heard of but that sound venerable somehow, give the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate, well-founded business.

"Clients for you, Mr Ponsonby," Miss Noble announces; she hasn't even bothered to ask their names before ushering them in. "I'll bring tea in a moment," and with that, she turns on her heels and leaves them alone.

Mr Thomas Ponsonby stands out of the subdued, traditional surroundings of his own office like a sore thumb. He's a thin, somewhat agitated man in his mid-forties, with a hollow, animated face and what John mentally calls sentient hair. His pinstriped brown suit and his horn-rimmed glasses both seem a size or two too large on him, and he appears unable to sit still any longer than two minutes, tops.

"Forgive the manners of my secretary, gentlemen," he says. "My aunt has selected her to take care of my daily affairs and I'm afraid she takes her task a bit too seriously. In fact, she seems to believe that she's my minder," he jumps to his feet and proffers a large, fine-boned hand to shake. "Thomas Ponsonby, at your service. How can I be of assistance?"

"Dr John Watson, ex-Army surgeon," John shakes the proffered hand. "This is an old comrade of mine, Sergeant Bill Murray. _Not_ the actor," he adds reflexively; an old inside joke between the two of them.

He might be imagining things, of course, but it seems to him as if something – some sort of recognition – flickers across the solicitor's face upon hearing his name. He glances at Bill who gives a tiny, barely perceivable nod. So he hasn't imagined it. Bill is an observant man, and if he's spotted it, too, there _had_ to be something, although John can't imagine for the life of him why Mr Ponsonby would know his name.

It's unlikely that he'll figure it out right here, right now, though, so he cuts directly to the core of the problem.

"I need help to get a house sold," he explains. "It is in Nether Wallop and I've inherited it from a distant uncle, a Mr Nathan Garbler, four years ago."

"I see," the estate agent's eyes appear to narrow in suspicion. "May I ask how did you find _my_ name, of all people?"

"I didn't," John replies truthfully. "My sister-in-law, however, works for the _Fortescue Bank_ ; she recommended you as one of their clients. In fact, she said you were their _only_ client from this area."

"I see," Mr Ponsonby says again, and John has the vague impression that the man is _not_ happy about being recommended, which is odd. As a rule, estate agents are more than happy to pick up new clients. "May I ask which house are we speaking about?"

"I'm told it's called T _he Veteran's House_ ," John suppresses a bitter grin over the irony of that fact, "and it can be supposedly found at 9 Little Ryder Lane."

To his surprise the estate agent begins to laugh hysterically.

"Goodness, you really want to sell the haunted house? Have you ever seen it, doctor?"

"No," John admits with a frown. "I was on my third tour in Afghanistan when my uncle died and didn't return to England until a couple of months ago. Why? What is wrong with the house?"

"Nothing; only that it's barely a house at all," Mr Ponsonby replies with a snort. "More like a ruin. It was already in a sorry shape when Mr Garbler received it fifteen or so years ago, and he didn't do much renovating during the eleven years he occupied it. He was more interested in stuffing the house full of so-called treasures and artwork than in making sure the roof wouldn't fall over his head."

"Perhaps John can finance a renovation by selling all that stuff," suggest Bill helpfully.

The solicitor raises an eyebrow in amusement.

" _If_ all that junk has any worth at all," he replies, clearly not believing _that_.

Bill frowns at him, not liking his attitude a bit. He's always been very protective towards his _Captain_ , and he has the nagging feeling that this bloke is trying to cheat John out of what's rightfully his.

"It would be worth a look anyway," he says, more sharply than intended. "Can you tell us who has the keys of the house?"

"The only part that could be secured is the ground floor; our local policeman, Sergeant Bradstreet has the keys," Mr Ponsonby replies with obvious reluctance. "I must warn you, though: some unsavoury tramps have taken up residence in the garden shed, and for some reason Bradstreet tolerates them."

He clearly disagrees with the policeman in that point.

"Well, they don't bother anyone there, I reckon, and at least they have a roof above their head," says John philosophically; a need he can fully understand. "That doesn't make a house haunted, though."

"No," the estate agent agrees. "It's considered haunted because the same tramps like to tell stories about a _zombie_ living in the attic."

John and Bill are speechless for a moment.

"A _zombie_ ," John finally says. "In the attic. Doing _what_?"

"Repairing parts of the house," Mr Ponsonby snorts again. "At least the tramps swear that they can hear the knocking of his hammer in certain nights. They sometimes even get a glimpse of him, deathly pale, wearing a red baseball cap of all things, moving around in the attic."

"After a certain level of delirium one can see the oddest things," Bill says dryly. As an Army nurse he's seen enough patients hallucinating to know that.

The estate agent nods in agreement. "Exactly. Bradstreet has searched the house repeatedly but never found anything. Nonetheless, no-one in Nether Wallop would willingly enter _The Veteran's House_ , doctor, so your chances to have it sold are very poor."

"I'd like to make my own impression," John says stubbornly, and the estate agent shrugs.

"It's up to you, of course. I'm sure Bradstreet will be happy to show you around. He's very taken with straightforward military types like yourselves."

It's said in a manner just this side of an insult but John doesn't care. He wouldn't trust this man with his dog (if he had one), let alone with his house, regardless of the shape it is in; there won't be any business connection between them, that much is certain. He thanks the man for the information and leaves the office, with Bill in tow.

They nearly run over Miss Noble, carrying a tray with the tea paraphernalia.

"Oh," she says, clearly disappointed. "You're leaving already? I was just about to serve tea."

"Ta, Miss Noble, but I don't think your boss and I are about to do business with each other," John replies. "Thank you for the effort, though."

She shakes her head in exasperation. "He was rude again, wasn't he? I don't know what to do with him and his manners!"

"It wasn't so bad," John says comfortingly. "We just had a disagreement, is all."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"Disagreement, huh?" Bill snorts as they leave _Jasmine House_ and walk towards his car. "C'mon, Cap, the man clearly didn't want you to go anywhere near that house!"

"No, he didn't," John agrees. "Which is why I'd _really_ like to make a little detour to Nether Wallop and take a look. _If_ you can afford the delay, that is."

"Sure, why not? The missus is away at some big family gathering and won't be home before the day after tomorrow, so I'm on my own. Let me program the GPS, then we can take off like the _Enterprise_."

John laughs because there are few ties closer than those between two Army comrades who both happen to be devout Trekkies and climbs into the passenger seat next to Bill who frowns at his GPS.

"Nether Wallop," he mutters. "Who comes up with names like that? Does it mean there's an Over Wallop, too?"

" _And_ a Middle Wallop, which happens to be an airfield, which is the home of the Army Air Corps," John tells him.

Bill is duly surprised. "Really? Have you ever been there?"

John shakes his head. "No. Might be worth a visit, though. Perhaps I'll even meet somebody I know from before. But not now. Let's see that infamous haunted house of mine first."

Bill has no objections, and as he's finished programming his GPS, they're soon on their way. The three point seven-miles distance to Nether Wallop is really a short one, and when they finally reach the village, even John with his exclusively urban interest has to admit that it's one of the prettiest ones he's ever seen. Like something taken from a painting – or an Agatha Christie adaptation.

At the edge of the village they catch up with a pizza delivery boy, also coming from Stockbridge on his light bike. The boy – well, young man of about twenty, whose name is apparently Billy Morgan – guides them to the police station, since that's the place he's heading to himself.

"You can't even get a pizza in Nether Wallop," he explains sourly. "The pub only serves traditional fare and they don't deliver. The whole place was frozen in time in the early twentieth century."

Considering that people are willing to believe in the existence of zombies and haunted houses, that statement is probably accurate.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The police station turns out to be a small office with a single arrest cell on the ground floor of an ordinary-looking house, with the village policeman's home upstairs. Crimes apparently aren't commonplace in Nether Wallop, save for the occasional pub brawl.

Billy knocks on the front door, then opens it without waiting for an answer. They come into a small anteroom, with an open room providing insight into the office and a wooden stairway leading to the upper floor. A girl of roughly Billy's age comes running down the stairs to take the pizzas from him and to pay him.

"Hi, Billy," she says, her voice pleasantly low-pitched and a little amused. "Took you long enough. I hope these aren't cold yet."

"I'm still within the thirty-minute-limit," Billy replies defensively. "Besides, I had to direct these blokes. They came to see your Dad."

"Come with me then," the girl says to John and Bill and leads them to the office, calling back over her shoulder to the pizza boy. "Justin's organising a movie night tomorrow – you game?"

"Sure," Billy checks his watch. "Sorry, gotta dash. Bye, Kate."

"See you tomorrow at Justin's," the girl replies; then she enters the office, places the pizza boxes on the desk and announces, "Visitors for you, Dad!"

The man who rises from behind his desk impresses the hell out of John. The only policeman of Nether Wallop is a plain-clothes detective sergeant, which is unusual but not unheard-of. He's a tall, broad-chested man of wiry strength, with short-cropped, greying dark hair, large ears and a long, straight nose. In his worn-in jeans, dark turtleneck and black leather jacket he's a fairly unassuming sight, but John and Bill are immediately reminded of some of their most hard-nosed drill sergeants. John is sure that not much gets by this man unnoticed. Those cool, observant blue eyes take notice of everything and seem to be able to pierce through bone and marrow.

His daughter has a lot in common with him, John finds. Kate Bradstreet, too, is slim, trim, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and she seems to have the same direct, no-nonsense attitude. Father and daughter obviously have an amiable relationship; John will learn later that Bradstreet had raised her alone from the age of ten.

The policeman shakes hands with them, introduces his daughter – he has a recognisable Northern accent – and offers a slice of pizza and tea, which they thankfully accept, as it's been half a day since they ate anything.

Kate goes to the small kitchen behind the stairs to fetch the tea paraphernalia for the visitors and herself and coffee for her father. Said coffee seems to be strong enough to hold the spoon upright and Bradstreet takes it black, without sugar – which, in John's opinion, is courting ulcers, but the detective sergeant is old enough to know what he's doing.

Kate apparently disagrees, giving her father a glare full of disapproval, and keeps nudging the milk jug and sugar bowl in his direction, which her father keeps ignoring. It seems to be an old argument between the two of them; one she isn't likely to win any time soon.

Bradstreet finishes his coffee in three long, unhurried gulps, and then he turns to John expectantly.

"Well, Dr Watson, let's talk about that house of yours, shall we?"

John and Bill are giving him identical shocked looks, and he grins.

"Don't worry, I'm not some sort of medium; nor am I Hercule Poirot or some other genius detective. Miss Noble gave me a call and announced your visit."

"But – but she wasn't even present when we discussed the house with Mr Ponsonby," John says, confused.

Kate Bradstreet laughs. "Obviously, she was eavesdropping. Everyone here does. There isn't much entertainment in Nether Wallop – or in Stockbridge, for that matter – so gossip will have to do."

"But why would anyone be interested in me wanting to have the house sold?" John still cannot see the point.

"Are you kidding?" Kate grins like a loon. "It's a haunted house - _the_ haunted house, the only one in Tess Valley. I'm sure people are already speculating about how you'll manage to get rid of the _Zombie Worker_ , as they call him – and whether you've got a cat in hell's chance against him or not."

"You must be kidding," John says faintly.

Kate shakes her head.

"You _aren't_ kidding? Do people _seriously_ believe in that shit?"

"Very few really do," Bradstreet intervenes. "It is, however, true, that something odd is going on in that house. And people like to speculate about odd things."

"Define _odd_ ," Bill says.

The sergeant shrugs. "Somebody definitely goes around in the upper levels from time to time. The homeless people who use the garden shed to crash have repeatedly alerted me, but whoever it may be, they are very shrewd… and probably know the best hiding places. Whenever I showed up, they were long gone. Perhaps now that the rightful owner has returned, we'll be luckier."

"To be honest, I'm not the least interested in the secret of the house," John says bluntly. "I'd just like to have it sold. I prefer to live in London; and I desperately need the money. My Army pension is not nearly enough for a decent life. Not in London."

"Well, that might be a problem," says Bradstreet thoughtfully.

"Because no-one would be willing to buy a haunted house?" Bill Murray's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

"On the contrary," the policeman replies with a tight smile. "The mystery is the only thing that could possibly make the house interesting for a potential buyer."

"And why is that?" John asks.

The sergeant shrugs again. "Quite frankly, it's a rather ugly house in the first place. _And_ it's in a sorry shape, too, although renovation could upgrade it a bit. Your…. uncle, was it?"

John nods and Bradstreet continues. "Your uncle cared more for his collection than for the house itself – and it shows."

"That's what Mr Ponsonby said, too," John mutters.

That earns him a raised eyebrow from the sergeant.

"Did he? Now _that's_ interesting, don't you think, Kate?"

" _Very_ interesting," his daughter agrees. "Seeing how eager he was to get his hands on the house after Mr Garbler's death. He was positively furious when it came out that the old gentleman had a will and named _you_ as his heir," she looks at John.

"Really?" John is honestly surprised by that. "What on Earth could be so interesting in a half-ruined house?"

"I have no idea," Bradstreet admits. "The ground floor, the only part of the house that Mr Garbler actually occupied, was sealed by the notary after opening the will. Everything of any value has been kept there ever since, until the heir would decide to show up and deal with it – which has just happened, I'd say."

"And you have the keys," John says.

The sergeant nods. "And I have the keys, put away in a place only I know, just in case somebody might get the stupid idea of breaking into the safe in this office."

"Why would anyone do that?" Bill shakes his head.

"Why would anyone want the house so badly?" Bradstreet asks back. "There _must_ be something of great value among all the rubbish old Mr Garbler so loved to collect. In fact, Ponsonby wasn't the only one showing an interest. There's this American calling himself Jungle Jones. Says he's some sort of amateur archaeologist and would just _love_ to study Mr Garbler's collection."

"A treasure hunter?" John asks tentatively.

"Most likely," Bradstreet agrees.

"But that means there has to be a treasure of some sort," Bill points out logically. "If that bloke crossed the ocean for it and all that."

"Exactly," the sergeant says. "Which is why we won't go over to the house tonight. It's getting late, and I don't want you – either of you – to get mugged or killed in the darkness."

John laughs. "We were both combat soldiers, Sergeant!"

"That may be so," Bradstreet replies seriously. "But whoever is after your inheritance, doctor, and it's certainly more than just one person, they're more than willing to fight dirty."

"And you know that – how exactly?" John asks doubtfully.

"Because I'm certain that Mr Garbler's fatal accident four years ago was carefully orchestrated," Bradstreet replies, grim-faced. "I just haven't been able to prove it."

John feels as if suddenly doused with ice cold water… but it doesn't frighten him, On the contrary; he feels invigorated like he hasn't felt for a very long time.

"All right," he says. "Why don't you tell me everything from the beginning?"

"'Cause it's a long story and it's already late," the sergeant replies. "We'll discuss everything in detail tomorrow. You can have our guest room if you don't mind sharing, and in the morning we can go to the house together."

John looks at Bill askance, who nods, and thus it's decided that they'd spend the night with the Nether Wallop police. It's a good thing that they've both packed an overnight bag, just in case.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The Veteran's House_ was modelled after the one described in the ACD short story "The Three Garridebs", of course.  
>  You are welcome to guess who 'plays' the two homeless guys. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**Chapter 04**

In the next morning they're treated to tea and toast by Kate Bradstreet, who shortly afterwards excuses herself to go to work. She's apparently a part-time legal clerk, although not in the village itself but in Stockbridge (where the majority of Nether Wallop's population seems to work) and has to catch the coach in time if she doesn't want to be late.

"She decided against a used car 'cause she's saving money for law school," explains Bradstreet, ignoring the teapot and brewing himself a mug of industrial strength coffee. "I wish I had the means to pay for her education, but raising her on just one salary was hard enough. I was unable to set any money aside for her future."

"A lot of people put themselves through uni," John comments, tactfully not asking what happened to Kate's mother. " _I did_. And one values all the more what one had to work for, instead of being given it on a platter."

"Perhaps," allows the sergeant. "But I'd be happier if she didn't have to make the daily trip to Stockbridge and back; especially in winter when she either leaves when it's still dark or comes home when it's already dark. She may be of legal age, but she still is and will always be my little girl."

To that John has nothing to say, and they eat their breakfast in companionable silence. After breakfast, Bradstreet deals with some paperwork from the previous days while his guests finish their morning rituals, and then they're ready to see the house.

"It isn't very far," the sergeant says. "There aren't any great distances in Nether Wallop. But we can take my car if you aren't up to a walk," he adds with a side glance at John's leg.

John shakes his head. "Nah, no need for that. The dratted limp is mostly psychosomatic; ignoring it is the only way to deal with it. What can you tell me about the house?"

"It is one of the oldest ones in the village," explains Bradstreet, expertly guiding them along picturesque little lanes lined with thatched cottages, surrounded by well-tended gardens. "Early Georgian, I think. Originally, it belonged to a certain Colonel Hamilton who'd served in India for some twenty years or so. That's where the name comes from. After the colonel's death his nephew, a Mr Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby, inherited the house, together with the Indian treasures supposedly hidden in it."

" _Ponsonby_?" echoes Bill. "Was he related to the unsympathetic bloke John met in Stockbridge?"

Bradstreet nods. "His uncle, actually. The older Mr Ponsonby was a very successful local businessman who made his money in property. He had no children of his own, so he left the business to the son of his younger brother."

"But not the house?" John asks in surprise.

"Not _this_ house," Bradstreet corrects. "He never actually lived there, you see. He had another house, a much better and more comfortable one, where his widow still lives, together with the nephew. This house stood empty and sealed for many years; until Mr Ponsonby senior sold it – rather cheaply, I'd say – to Mr Nathan Garbler, an old school friend of his, who had just retired from his job as a librarian in Andover and sought a place for his collection."

"What collection?" John remembers having heard about _that_ already.

The sergeant shrugs. "All sorts of stuff: paintings, statuettes, archaeological artefacts, ceremonial masks from all around the world, stuffed animals and only God knows what else. The man had an unusually broad scale of interests and considered himself an amateur researcher. Whether he truly had any idea of the value of the things he collected I cannot say."

"Do you think the collection is worthless, then?" Bill tries to clarify.

Bradstreet shrugs again. "I honestly don't know. The ground floor, where it's stored, has been sealed after Mr Garbler's death, as I've already told you, and no experts have ever examined it. But I find it a tad suspicious that this Mr 'Jungle' Jones is showing such a strong interest for it."

Bill frowns. "And no-one has thought of taking a closer look at the old man's stuff?"

"We couldn't," the policeman replies. "All that now belongs to Doctor Watson here; we weren't allowed to touch anything without his permission. And since he was in Afghanistan until recently, we had no way to contact him."

"Well, I'm here now, so I think it's the best if we look at it together," says John. "To make it official and with a witness and all that. But you said something about Mr Garbler's death last night… that something was wrong about it. How did he die?"

"It was an accident. Or, at least, it _seemed_ to be one," Bradstreet corrects himself. "The roof was leaking – it still is, in fact – and Mr Garbler had the roofer come. They found the leak and the roofer promised to return on the next day."

"And? Did he?"

"He did – only to find Mr Garbler lying in the back yard, dead, with his neck broken. It seemed as if he'd tried to fix the leak temporarily and fell to his death."

"Sounds possible," Bill comments, but the policeman shakes his head.

"Not if one knew the late Mr Garbler. He was the kind of person who needed help with hitting a nail into the wall… _and_ he was afraid of heights. He'd never try fixing the roof on his own, especially not when he expected the roofer to return on the next day."

"But you found no proof that somebody… er… _helped_ him fall off the roof," John says; it isn't a question.

Bradstreet shakes his head. "None. The body was sent to the mortuary in Winchester, of course, but the post mortem report showed up without any suspicious results."

"What about the roofer?" Bill, a great lover of crime novels, suggests. "Couldn't he have tossed the old man off the roof on the previous evening already and returned on the next day to 'find' him?"

"Theoretically, it _would_ be possible," the sergeant agrees. "According to the post mortem, Dr Garbler _did_ die sometime during that night. However, there were none of the characteristic bruises on him that usually show up post-mortem when one was forcefully pushed."

"There's another possibility," John says slowly. "Somebody could have scared the old man enough so that he'd fall off the roof on his own."

"True," Bradstreet allows. "Unfortunately, we couldn't find any proof for that."

"And this roofer," John says. "What kind of man is he?"

"He's an American expatriate," the sergeant replies thoughtfully. "Came here ten… no, almost twelve years ago and opened up a small company for construction work. _Reno Enterprises_ it's called, after him, although it's too big a name for such a small business. It's just him, a plumber, a carpenter and an electrician. Still, it's a true blessing for the locals, offering them three solid jobs and the chance to get their houses fixed quickly when the need arises."

"The others are all from here?" Bill asks and Bradstreet nods.

"Yes. He did originally have a different plumber who came with him from the States, but that one left two or three years ago."

"Why?"

"I don't know. One day he was here, the next day he was gone, and we never saw him again. According to Mr Reno he just quit his job and left, leaving no contact data behind."

"But you have no proof?"

"Do I need any? This is a village, not a prison. Everyone can come and go as they please. Although," Bradstreet adds thoughtfully, "he _was_ seen around the house by the homeless guys who crash there."

"That's odd," Bill comments, but the policeman shakes his head.

"Not really. _Everyone_ is interested in the house; more so since the so called zombie worker's first appearance. There's little in the means of entertainment here, so a haunted house is practically a theme park."

"And now I'm really curious," John says, smiling.

Bradstreet grins, turns into the next little lane, and then they are standing face-to-face with _The Veteran's House_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As they were told before, it isn't a very pretty house: a large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was this ground floor, mostly, where John's late uncle used to live; and indeed, the low windows prove to be the front of the huge room in which Mr Garbler spent his waking hours.

The front yard of the house is basically some sort of rockery – neglected and overgrown and interspersed with flowering shrubs in desperate need of a good pruning – which falls to a stretch of lawn below. It would be a pleasant sight if both rockery and lawn weren't liberally strewn with all sorts of rubbish, from broken bottles through old newspapers to animal bones and empty tin cans. John can even spot a set of false teeth that clearly haven't been used for years, lying under one of the shrubs.

"Some people clearly have made themselves at home here," Bill comments cynically.

John simply shrugs. "It's a house that has been abandoned for half a decade. What did you expect?"

"You okay with this, Cap?"

"Well, it's my own fault for not having looked after the house all this time, isn't it?" John points out reasonably. "I'm afraid it won' be much of a gain, though."

And indeed, the house seems to be in a desolate shape. The roof is broken in several places, bricks are missing from the outer walls on both floors, the blinds are hanging torn in front of the empty windows. Only the two on the ground floor are bolted, denying access to anyone who wants to get in.

On the right side a short, broken flight of concrete stairs leads to the main entrance that is bolted, too, and sealed with police tape and a padlock. Parts of the short stairway are crumpled into the overgrown grass and the iron railing has been torn out of its original place, too.

The padlock seems untouched, but there's a winding metal staircase leading directly to the attic at the back of the house – clearly the equivalent of a fire escape that, however, makes it easy to anyone who wants to search the upper floor to gain access. The house has a basement, too; judging by the many small windows; one as large as the room in the ground floor.

"As far as I know there are a wine cellar and a furnace in the basement," Bradstreet tells them. "But if there truly was any wine, it's long gone by now."

Their arrival lures the unofficial tenants out of the woodwork: two homeless men, one about thirty, with dirty blond hair and a dishevelled beard, the other one at least twenty years older, his grey curls neatly trimmed, his features razor sharp, and he's as clean-shaven as one can be without the use of a proper bathroom mirror. The sergeant greets them like old acquaintances; they've probably known each other for a long time.

"Hey Leon, Doc, how's things?"

"Middling," the older man called Doc replies, his voice as sharp and precise as his features, making John wonder what he might have been in his former life. "We may have to make a few trips to the larger towns again, soon. One cannot live out of Nether Wallop alone. Who's this?" he then asks, looking at John.

"Your landlord," Bradstreet replies, grinning.

Doc gives him a flat, unfriendly look. "Ha-ha, what a good joke!"

"I kid you not," the sergeant says. "Doctor Watson is the rightful owner of his house; has been for the last four years, in fact."

The man closes his piercing eyes for a moment. "Oh, swell," he then says resignedly. "I reckon you want us gone, then."

"Not necessarily," John replies with a shrug. "At least not right away. I _am_ planning to have the house sold, though."

"Good luck!" Doc comments dryly.

John frowns at him. "You're not telling me that there's really a zombie haunting the place, are you? 'Cause until right now I thought you weren't soft in the head."

"I don't know about _zombies_ ," the homeless man answers slowly. "But _something_ – or _somebody_ – is up there in the attic. There's light sometimes…"

"Likely from a torch, since electricity has been cut after Mr Garbler's death," Bradstreet supplies.

Doc nods in agreement. "I reckon it _is_ a torch, as it's moving from one part of the attic to the other quite rapidly. And we can hear noises sometimes as if somebody was working on repairs…"

"… or looking for something… perhaps a treasure," the younger tramp adds.

Unlike his comrade's, his eyes are glassy and his pupils blown; he's clearly a drug addict with only a tentative connection to reality. John's experienced eyes spot the needle marks on his right forearm – his sleeve is torn and he doesn't seem to have a proper coat, or chooses not to wear it, despite the cold – and Bradstreet gives a tiny nod.

"But we've never actually _seen_ anyone," Doc finishes, ignoring the mute understanding between their visitors. "Well, Leon claims to have seen the zombie once, but at the time he was so shot up with cocaine that it was probably all in his head."

"It was pale… bleached even…," the younger man mutters, "with dead eyes and a horribly disfigured face… an animated corpse…"

"… wearing jeans, a checked shirt and a red baseball cap, yes, we know," Doc silences him impatiently. "Running around with an axe, of all things. You've told it just about everyone by now, and the local brats were watching the house with binoculars for weeks before giving up because they never found anything."

"And no-one has ever tried to search the house?" Bill asks.

" _I have_ ," Bradstreet replies with a shrug. "Several times. Never found a thing… dead _or_ alive."

"'Cause you looked during the day," the homeless junkie mutters. "The zombie only ever comes out at _night_."

Doc rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure," then he turns to Bill, suddenly deadly serious. "Still, I won't enter the house at nighttime. People who did so were never seen again."

"You mean that American bloke, Mr Reno's plumber?" Bill clarifies.

"He was the first," Doc answers grimly. "There were others… two or three times since him. None of them locals."

"Tramps like you then?" Bradstreet asks bluntly; this piece of information is apparently news for him, too. Doc takes no offence.

"They were better fed and better dressed, at the very least," he says dryly. "I never saw them before; and by now I know most of the homeless people in this area. No, my guess would be that they were hired thugs. Of course, we did our best _not_ to be seen by them. Their kind beats up people like us for fun."

"And they definitely entered the house?" Bradstreet presses on.

Doc nods. "I saw them climb the metal staircase behind the house; but I didn't see them leave. Not one of them."

"The zombie murdered them and hid the corpses in the gardens," the druggie mutters darkly.

Doc rolls his eyes. "Unlikely. We'd have noticed _that_."

"What did then happen to them, in your opinion?" John asks.

The homeless man shrugs. "I have no idea; and frankly, I don't even _want_ to know. It's healthier for me _not_ to know."

"You're probably right," Bradstreet allows. "Still, I wish you'd have come to me with this."

Doc shakes his head. "Not my problem, Sergeant. I just want to be left alone."

Although he still looks unhappy, Bradstreet clearly knows the man better than to try applying pressure. Instead, he turns to John.

"Well, Doctor Watson? Do you still want to see the house from the inside?"

"Of course I do," John replies. "There may be things in my uncle's collection that I can sell, and I need the money. Do you have an inventory list?"

Bradstreet nods. "It has been made by _Parker & Brockman_ in Stockbridge, right after Mr Garbler's death and confirmed by a notary. The original is kept by the law firm, together with Mr Garbler's will, but yeah, I've got a copy in my office."

"Do you think there might be anything of value?" John asks pessimistically.

The policeman shrugs. "All I know is that Mr Garbler used to go to London sometimes, to look up artefacts at _Sotheby's_ or _Christie's_. Whether he actually bought anything I cannot tell, but even if he did, it couldn't have been anything big. He wasn't a wealthy man and lived off his pension."

"There must be at least _something_ ," Doc says. "Or this 'Jungle' Jones character wouldn't be sniffing around the house from time to time."

"He still does that?" That, too, is clearly news for Bradstreet.

Doc nods. "Whenever he comes back from one of those digs of his, he shows up here, watching the house for a while."

"But he never enters?"

"Not that I'd know. But we're hardly ever here during summer, so it _is_ possible, I reckon."

"Hmmm," Bradstreet frowns. "I've read that inventory list several times and I honestly can't imagine what on it could be interesting for a treasure hunter."

"Perhaps he understands something else under _treasure_ than we do," Bill suggests. "Amateur archaeologists can go batty about old bones and broken pottery and stuff…"

"That would make sense," Bradstreet allows. "Mr Garbler had a great deal of _those_ , neatly sorted and prepared and labelled and all that."

"Are they still here?"

"They should; let's take a look, shall we?"

The sergeant fishes the keys out of his pocket, asks Doc if he'd like to come with them but the homeless man declines. He may not believe in zombies but is very obviously afraid of the house and its mysterious occupant, so Bradstreet doesn't insist on him joining them.

John and Bill, on the other hand, can barely contain their excitement. Especially John, for whom this is the greatest adventure since his return. Even if they shouldn't find anything of value, his natural curiosity is piqued, and he can't wait to see what's inside.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The padlock has become a bit rusty during the recent four years, so it takes the sergeant several tries to open it. When it finally gives, Bradstreet removes it and tucks it into his pocket – it will have to be re-installed after they're done. The front door opens with groaning protest, and they come into a small, dark anteroom with doors leading to various rooms in the ground floor and a short wooden staircase leading to the upper levels. For the fact that it hasn't been used for years, the inside of the house is actually in a decent shape.

One of the doors is bolted and locked, too. Bradstreet removes this padlock as well and opens the two original locks with the other keys on his keychain, and then they can finally enter the central room of the ground floor; the one holding the late Mr Garbler's collection.

As they've already guessed from the outside, the room takes in almost the entire ground floor – and it looks like a small museum. It is both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all round, crowded with specimens – geological and anatomical –, small objects of art and pieces of pottery.

Cases of butterflies and moths flank each side of the entrance and paintings of various sizes as well as pieces of sculpture cover every single inch of wall. A large table in the centre is littered with all sorts of debris – mostly broken pottery, but also colourful gems, whether fake or genuine John cannot tell – while the tall brass tube of a vintage microscope (quite a powerful one in its heyday) bristles up among them.

Glancing around, John is surprised by the universality of his late uncle's interests.

"Was there _anything_ this man didn't collect?" he wonders, poking at a case of ancient coins, only to abandon it in favour of a cabinet of flint instruments. "I wonder if I'll be able to make money of any of this."

He seriously doubts it, to be honest. He isn't one to collect things, himself – being in the Army has taught him to travel light – and he can't imagine that anyone would want all this junk.

"You can always organise a car boot sale," Bill suggests, only half-joking. "You'd be surprised by all the shit people are willing to buy, just because they think they'd get a bargain. And I'm sure the local school would happily accept _those_."

He waves at the large cupboard of fossil bones behind the central table, above which is a line of plaster skulls, with labels like 'Neanderthal', 'Heidelberg' and Cro-Magnon' printed beneath them.

"Those and the butterflies, too," he adds. "It's clear that your uncle was a student of many subjects."

"Or simply obsessed with junk," John mutters unhappily.

He still doesn't believe to find anything of value here, although the few delicate Japanese vases he's seen so far do look promising. Bill, however, disagrees.

"At least the furniture is pretty decent," he says. "These old-fashioned little cabinets are very popular at the moment, if you can trust my wife… especially original ones, made of solid wood like these. You can get a good price for them from a second-hand shop in London."

John gives him a baleful look. "And how am I supposed to _get_ them to London?"

"You aren't," Bill replies patiently. "That's what the Internet is for. You take photos of the individual pieces – with your _phone_ –, upload them to one of those websites and wait for the offers."

"But I'd have to stay here for that," John points out. "People will want to actually see the stuff before buying it."

"True," Bill shrugs. "Problem? You haven't got anything else to do right now, do you?"

 _That_ is depressingly true, of course, but John still isn't quite ready to leave London and move to Nether Wallop, not even temporarily. London is the place to be, even if he won't be able to afford it much longer.

"Mr Murray does have a point," Bradstreet interferes. "In any case, before you'd be able to do anything about the house or what's in it, you'll have to appear at __Parker & Brockman__ in Stockbridge, to confirm your identity. I might have checked you out through official channels last night, so I happen to know that you are indeed the rightful heir, but I cannot hand over the keys to you without their permission, as they are the executors of Mr Garbler's will."

"And where am I supposed to stay in the meantime?" John asks. "With the tramps in the garden shed? Or am I to move in with you at the police station?"

His tone is more than a little hostile but Bradstreet takes no offence. He simply says he has a better idea, locks the room and the main entrance again and leads them away from the house.

"Where are we going?" John asks belligerently.

"To _Dane Cottage_ , at Five Bells Lane," Bradstreet replies calmly. "Mrs Holding, the owner, takes in lodgers, both permanent ones and bed and breakfast-style, and right now she's got a free room. You can stay with her while you clear things with Parker & Brockman. Don't worry," he adds, seeing John's uncomfortable expression. "It will be cheaper than travelling to and fro between London and Stockbridge and then taking a cab here every time."

John is torn between two choices, neither of them really to his liking, but Bill finds the sergeant's solution a good one. He says so.

"I'll come and fetch you when you're done," he promises. "And you already have an overnight bag, so what?"

"But I don't even have my laptop with me!" John protests.

Bill recognises the unspoken addition _or my gun_ , which John wouldn't voice within the earshot of a policeman, it being illegal and all that.

"I don't think you'll need it, Cap," he says quietly, and only John knows that he doesn't mean the laptop at all. "But I can bring it with me when I'll be back for you, say in three days' time, all right?"

John nods jerkily. He feels strangely vulnerable, alone in the unknown village; it gives him the uncomfortable feeling that he's lost control over his life completely. He doesn't _want_ to stay here. But he doesn't want to return to his miserable bed-sit, either. And at least the house full of junk is legally _his_. He might even get something out of it, if he can summon the patience to navigate among the pitfalls of bureaucracy.

"All right," he says with a resigned sigh.

Bill Murray goes back with them to the police station, where he gets his things and climbs into his Land Rover.

"Take care of the Cap for me," he says quietly to Bradstreet, who simply nods, and then drives away. John stares after him glumly – until the sergeant claps him on the back.

"Come on, Doctor Watson, let's have lunch; then we'll pay Mrs Holding a visit. The sooner you get your affairs sorted the better for you."

Resigned to his fate, John follows the man to the local pub, where they have a couple of sandwiches each, and John orders a lager. Strengthened that way, he almost __feels ready to face Mrs Holding, whoever she might be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Dane Cottage_ is a really existing place. It served as Miss Marple’s house in the TV-adaptations. _The Greyhound_ is also a real pub in Stockbridge. Google Search can be a very useful thing. ;)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05**

The house in Five Bells Lane is one of the many lovely, thatched cottages so characteristic of Nether Wallop, surrounded by what would be a beautiful garden during spring- and summertime. Even now, in its wintry nakedness, it is a pleasant sight. The occupants are clearly fond of birds as well, based on the various sorts of seeds sprinkled generously under one of the trees.

Bradstreet rings the bell and the door of the cottage opens almost immediately. Out comes a slim, blonde woman of about John’s own age or at least only a couple of years younger, with a black coat of fake fur thrown over her shoulders. She doesn’t look old enough to be the landlady, though.

“Sergeant Bradstreet!” she greets the policeman cheerfully. “What brings you to our humble abode?”

“I’ve brought a temporary lodger for Mrs Holding,” the sergeant says, proving John’s estimate true; then he introduces them to each other. “Dr John Watson – Mary Morstan. Miss Morstan is a teacher in the village school and Mrs Holding’s permanent tenant.”

“My pleasure,” Miss Morstan shakes hands with John, who begins to warm up to his temporary accommodation. She isn’t a stunning beauty in the Hollywood sense of the word, but she seems to be a lovely person with a healthy sense of humour. Perhaps staying in Nether Wallop for a couple of days won’t be entirely horrible.

She invites them in and leads them directly to Mrs Holding’s living room, which, she says, the old lady still calls a drawing-room. It is a relatively small room in any case, full of overstuffed chairs and sofas that all have the same colours as the wallpaper _and_ the curtains: a rather ugly one, in various shades of orange, ochre and brown. After only a minute or two John has the feeling that his eyes are beginning to bleed.

Mrs Holding rises from one of the deep, comfortable armchairs, a-flutter with excitement like a little bird. She’s a tiny old lady, small-boned and flat-footed, with a round, sweet, stupid face framed by short grey curls, upon which she wears the most ridiculous knitted hat John has ever seen. It has a ruffled brim, like the pieces of cloth his Gran used to cover the jars of preserved fruit with.

She wears a most unflattering, for shapeless russet jacket over her mid-length dress and flat shoes with her thick woollen stockings. As she hurries forth to welcome the sergeant in delight, her small handbag falls to the floor, opens and spills out an astonishing amount of coins, lacy handkerchiefs, wrapped sweets, keys, several different shades of lipstick, two combs, a powder compact, a manicure set and a small bottle of pills usually prescribed for elderly people to ease their rheumatic pains. John can hardly believe that it has all fitted into that relatively small bag.

Miss Morstan crouches to pick the spilled things up with practiced ease; clearly, she isn’t doing this for the first time. She glances up into John’s surprised face and says, quietly but clearly audible over Mrs Holding’s laments about her own clumsiness, “It’s bigger in the inside.”

After a moment of confusion John gets the Dr Who reference and has a really hard time to suppress a giggle. _That_ wouldn’t be nice to the old lady, after all.

Having stuffed everything back into the bag, Miss Morstan makes tea, even though both John and the sergeant ask her not to bother. Apparently, serving their visitors tea at every possible time of the day is the iron law in Mrs Holding’s house, and – according to Miss Morstan’s stage whisper – _resistance is futile_.

She appears to be Mrs Holding’s minder as well as her tenant, which is clearly OK with her, and John finds that he likes her a lot. Few women are deeply enough into sci-fi series to quote catch phrases, and while he’s only moderately interested in Dr Who, he finds the prospect of living under the same roof with a fellow Trekkie delightful. Even if it’s only for a few days.

Tea properly prepared and served, they can now all sit around the small coffee table and discuss the reason for the visit. Miss Holding is very obviously delighted to have a live-in doctor for a while, although John emphasises that it will only be a temporary thing.

“I just need a few days for the paperwork to confirm my ownership of _The Veteran’s House_ to be completed,” he explains which causes another bout of excitement from Mrs Holding.

“Oh, _you_ are the nephew of Mr Garbler, then!” she exclaims. “You know, after he died and you couldn’t be found anywhere, some people – like that nephew of Paula Ponsonby – began to doubt that you ever existed. Seeing that you never visited your uncle and all.”

“He wasn’t truly my uncle,” John replies patiently, “just a several times removed cousin of my mother or somesuch. And at the time he died I was in Afghanistan, in a war zone, serving as a battlefield trauma surgeon. I’ve only just returned to England a couple of months ago.”

The ladies digest that piece of information for a while.

“Why did you come back in the first place?” Miss Morstan finally asks. “It must be deadly boring for you here, compared with your work at the front lines.”

“I got shot,” John replies simply. “My shoulder is irreparably damaged. I won’t be able to operate ever again, so I got an honourable discharge and was invalided home.”

No matter how many times he’s already told the story, it still hurts anew, every single time.

“Man,” Miss Morstan says with obvious sympathy. “That’s hard. What are you going to do with yourself?”

“I have no idea,” John admits. “I worked as a locum doctor for London for a while, but it was…”

“… boring,” she finishes for him. “Don’t be afraid to say so. If anyone, I certainly can understand; I’d return to India in a moment if I could. So… are you moving into your house now?”

“Oh God, no!” John laughs. “What am I supposed to do in a place like this? No, I want to have the house sold, so that I can stay in London.”

“What for?” she asks bluntly. “You clearly aren’t doing anything of importance there right now. At least living in your own house would spare you the rent, until you make up your mind about what you want to do with your life.”

John has to admit that she does have a point, but the mere idea of leaving London raises his hackles. It feels like admitting defeat and he’s not ready for _that_. Not yet.

“I’ll think about it,” he says evasively, and she drops the topic.

The rest is quickly done, thanks to the reassuring presence of Sergeant Bradstreet whom old Mrs Holding seems to trust unconditionally. John is showed a cosy little room upstairs (still somewhat bigger than his bed-sit) with a wallpaper every bit as hideous as the one in the lounge, but with a _very_ comfortable bed, a small desk and a built-in wardrobe just large enough to keep several changes of clothes for _one_ person. The armchair at the desk is surprisingly comfortable, and next to the room is a small shower cubicle and a loo, for his use alone, as the ladies share a proper bathroom downstairs, Mrs Holding explains, where Miss Morstan has her room next to that of the landlady’s.

John is content with the arrangement. He doesn’t want either of these kind women to witness his nightmares, and the walls of the cottage seem solid enough to keep the sounds inside his room. They come to an agreement about the rent – which is fairly modest indeed – about the proper time for breakfast, and then Sergeant Bradstreet takes his leave to deal with some overdue paperwork.

He does promise to drive John to Stockbridge on the next day, though. Clearly, the criminal classes also find Nether Wallop an unbearably dull place if the only local policeman can afford to play chauffeur to random visitors.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
By that time John is both physically and emotionally drained and excuses himself to retreat to his room. After a long, hot shower which is a true blessing for his aching shoulder, he calls Clara and tells her everything he’s learned. Clara promises to collect the necessary documents for him and meet him in Stockbridge on the next day.

“Won’t you get in trouble for missing a day?” he asks. He doesn’t want _that_. Clara has done more than enough already.

“Perhaps,” she admits; he can almost see her indifferent shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got an offer from the _Shad Sanderson Bank_. The pay is marginally less, but I don’t think I could work for Mr Fortescue any longer after how he treated you.”

“Hey, you shouldn’t give up your job for me!” John protests.

“I don’t,” she replies. “I’m doing this for _me_. If I stayed at the _Fortescue Bank_ , one day I might end up like Mr Fortescue; and I don’t want to become that person,” she pauses. “John, would you mind terribly if I brought Harry with me? She called to ask about you and said she’d like to see the house.”

John doesn’t like the idea of having Harry involved – especially since Clara revealed to him that his sister wanted to sell the house in his absence. He says so. Clara is apologetic but insistent on bringing Harry with her, and after a while John understands that they’re trying to give their marriage one last chance, and while he believes Clara is a fool to do that, he doesn’t want to be a hindrance.

“But only if she’s sober,” he emphasizes. “I’m doing this for you, Clara, not for her. If she shows up drunk, I’ll throw her out with my own hands. Tell her that. I’m not kidding. I’ve had enough of her drunken escapades.”

Clara promises everything and thanks him profusely. It’s embarrassing. John hangs up and runs his hands through his hair in frustration, calling himself seven different kinds of idiot for giving in – again. He swore so many times no longer trying to save Harry, who obviously doesn’t _want_ to be saved – and yet he’s just given in again. Even if it was for _Clara_ , basically. For Clara, who would also be better off without Harry. 

As a doctor, he knows they can’t help Harry without her doing her part. As her brother, he always lets himself be manipulated into guilt and tries it again and again nevertheless.

When he goes to bed, he doesn’t dream of Afghanistan and the war and of being shot. Not this time. This time he dreams about his mother drinking herself into an early grave to escape an abusive marriage, with his fourteen-year-old self watching helplessly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The next morning he wakes up to the fantastic smells of a full English breakfast being prepared downstairs. By the time he gets ready, it is already waiting for him in the kitchen. To his surprise, though, the ladies are only having toast, jam and tea.

“Gentlemen need a proper breakfast,” Mrs Holding explains in her naïve, old-fashioned manner. “But I could never eat much in the morning.”

She wears a different outfit today; one that is every bit as ugly and unflattering than the previous one. Miss Morstan, on the other hand, wears a nice little skirt suit in dove grey and is obviously ready to leave for work.

“What’s _your_ excuse?” John asks, digging into his fantastic breakfast with gusto. It’s the best thing he’s eaten in years.

“Vanity and finances,” she replies promptly, her eyes twinkling in good humour. “A girl of my age has to watch her weight; and I cannot afford to buy a complete new wardrobe, should my clothes become too tight.”

They laugh, as she’s rather on the thin side, and soon thereafter she leaves to walk over to the local school where she works, promising Mrs Holding to do the shopping on her way back. John has barely finished his breakfast when a police car pulls up in front of the cottage and Sergeant Bradstreet gets out of it. John is surprised to spot his daughter in the back street.

“Since we’re going to Stockbridge anyway, I thought we could take her with us,” Bradstreet explains. “She works for _Parker & Brockman_, so we won’t have to make any detours for her sake.

The coincidence seems a bit too convenient at first, but then John tells himself _not_ to be paranoid. The girl is a solicitor’s clerk, aspiring to go to law school; it’s unlikely that there would be too many other law firms in Stockbridge for which she could work.

“Besides,” the sergeant adds conversationally,” I like to put the fear of God in her boyfriend from time to time.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “Really, Dad, as if Justin were afraid of you! You rocked him on your knees when he was a toddler!”

“That was before he started dating my baby girl,” Bradstreet says darkly. “I had _words_ with him, right at the beginning, and he knows that not even his uncle would be able to bail him out of serious trouble, should he _not_ behave.”

“God save everyone from protective fathers,” Kate mutters under her breath. “More so if they happen to be policemen.”

John suppresses a grin as he climbs into the passenger seat, while father and daughter keep bickering good-naturedly. He assumes that aforementioned Justin is the same one who is planning the movie night to which Kate invited Billy, the pizza boy. Apparently, he’s also Miss Bradstreet’s boyfriend and somehow connected to _Parker & Brockman_ as well. In places as tiny as Nether Wallop probably everyone is connected to everyone else. And John can very well imagine Sergeant Bradstreet intimidating even the nephew of an influential lawyer into proper behaviour.

The visit to _Parker & Brockman_ promises to be highly entertaining, if nothing else.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A short time later the police car turns into the now-familiar parking lot of _Jasmine House_ , but this time John is steered towards the front of the building, occupied by the large, modern offices of _Parker & Brockman_. The law firm, Bradstreet explains, was born of the merger of _Parker-Smythe_ in Andover and _Brockman_ in Stockbridge some twenty years previously, and both senior partners, Mr Parker-Smythe and Miss Brockman, have worked for their respective family businesses in the second generation.

Since the merger, Mr Parker-Smythe has been acting as Head of Commerce and Property and Miss Brockman as Head of Conveyance. Kate happens to be the part-time secretary of Mr Parker-Smythe, while her boyfriend, fresh out of law school, works for Miss Brockman as a trainee lawyer. The firm also has a family executive, with thirty years of experience in family law, and a conveyance executive, but those work in the Andover office.

Clara and Harry are already waiting in the outer office, being entertained by a friendly-looking young man who turns out to be Justin Parker-Smythe. Clara is elegant and lovely as always; Harry is painfully and apologetically sober, trying valiantly to make a good impression in her little black dress and _almost_ succeeding. At least she looks marginally better than the last time John saw her.

They are all ushered into Mr Parker-Smythe’s office, which is an example of Spartan elegance: all unadorned surfaces of dark wood, chrome and leather. The lawyer is a big man in a conservative three-piece suit, with a flat, deeply-lined face and slicked-back, thinning hair, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He is obviously experienced enough to select Clara as the only one of his social class, but extends his courtesy to Harry and John by default.

He asks Kate Bradstreet for the Garbler file, and soon they are viewing the purchase contract of _The Veteran’s House_ between the late Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby and the late Nathan Garbler, as well as the last will of aforementioned Mr Garbler, in which he leaves the house to John. Mr Parker-Smythe examines the documents provided by Clara thoroughly, to confirm John’s identity, and even questions Sergeant Bradstreet about the results of his research concerning John’s person.

“Well,” he then says, “everything seems to be in proper order. You are indeed the lawful owner of _The Veteran’s House_ , Doctor Watson. My sincerest condolences for the loss of your uncle. What are you planning to do with it?”

“I was planning to have it sold,” John replies with a shrug. “But I’m told that in its current state if won’t do me much good. At least I’ll try to sell my uncle’s collection, such as it is. An empty house is always more appealing to potential buyers than one full of junk.”

“We could help you organise a car boot sale,” Justin Parker-Smythe offers and Kate Bradstreet nods enthusiastically. “Billy and Andy would be game, too, I’m sure. It would be fun; and perhaps we’d get to see the zombie, too!”

Mr Parker-Smythe rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Justin, zombies don’t exist, save in those idiotic video games you love to waste your time with. Whatever hides in that house, I’m sure they’re very much alive.”

“Then why hasn’t Mr Bradstreet found anyone?” Justin demands.

The lawyer’s eyes are cold behind his glasses. “Perhaps he didn’t search thoroughly enough.”

Which is a thinly-veiled insult towards the policeman and the way he does his work, but Bradstreet doesn’t take the bait. He just smiles calmly; it isn’t a friendly smile, and Justin Parker-Smythe takes an involuntary step _away_ from his uncle as if wanting to get out of the firing line. John gets the feeling that the head lawyer isn’t any happier about Justin and Kate being in love with each other than Bradstreet is. The whole thing begins to resemble of _Romeo and Juliet_ , he thinks, suppressing a grin.

“My friend Bill also suggested a car boot sale,” he says, mostly to break the tension. “However, I’ve never done such a thing before, so any help you can offer would be very welcome.”

Kate and Justin exchange excited looks, much to the dismay of their respective older relatives.

“We could do it next weekend,” Justin suggests. “With a little advertising on Facebook we can generate enough interest to have a good sale.”

“You can stay with Mrs Holding until then, Doctor Watson,” Kate adds. “I’m sure Miss Morstan would be happy to help, too.”

“We can discuss the details later,” Clara intervenes, seeing Mr Parker-Smythe’s growing impatience. “Are we done with the official stuff here?”

The solicitor nods in obvious relief. “As far as I am concerned, yes.”

“Good,” Clara says. “Why don’t we go and have an early lunch somewhere, John? You’re welcome to join us, Sergeant,” she looks at Bradstreet, but the policeman shakes his head.

“Thank you, but I have things to do here. I’ll meet you later, Doctor Watson, I think. Now that you’ve officially taken over your inheritance, undue interest in _The Veteran’s House_ will grow for a while, so it’s better if I keep half an eye on it – and you.”

John chooses _not_ to tell him that he doesn’t need protection. He clearly means well, and besides, being on good terms with the police can be useful. He simply nods, gathers his documents and follows Clara and Harry out of the office.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They end up in _The Greyhound_ , one of the local pubs: an old, lovely white-and-yellow building at High Street that offers a nice ambience, excellent food and a fine selection of excellent and ales. John isn’t practically hungry after the huge breakfast he’s had a little more than an hour ago, but the two women haven’t eaten yet, so they order a proper lunch while he’s nursing a large mug of coffee. He’d prefer a stout, which he won’t have, because of Harry’s presence, and hopes to get over with this pitiful attempt of a family reunion as soon as possible. As much as he loves Clara – and he really does – spending time with Harry, even for Clara’s sake, is something that he finds burdensome.

Especially as he has the nagging suspicion that Harry is only interested in the whole thing because she hopes to get some of the money the car boot sale might bring in. The fact that she’s already tried to have the house sold, behind her brother’s back proves that she hasn’t quite understood that John is the _single_ owner of it. She clearly considers it a shared property, just because they are siblings, and expects to have her share of _everything_.

Consequently she’s the one who starts discussing the topic.

“Are you really letting those young brats help you with selling your stuff?” she tries to sound concerned but only manages to sound demanding and aggressive.

 _So much about good intentions_ , John thinks but nods anyway.

Harry is scandalised. “You don’t even _know_ them!”

“Sometimes that’s an advantage,” John mutters.

Harry gets the hint, of course – she might be an alcoholic, but otherwise she isn’t stupid – and blanches in anger. 

“They’ll steal everything of value,” she accuses.

John sighs. “Harry, I’ve _seen_ the stuff and I’d be surprised if there were anything of real value. Most of it is flea market ware. There’s nothing _worth_ stealing; not unless you’re into fossil bones or fake gemstones.”

At the word _gemstones_ Harry perks up visibly. “Are you sure they’re all fake?”

John sighs again wearily. “No, I’m not. I’m not an expert, after all. But I seriously doubt that Mr Garbler would have left them out on the table if they were genuine.”

“Why are you calling him Mr Garbler?” Harry asks. “He was our _uncle_.”

“An uncle we never met and only ever saw in an old family photo where Mum was four,” John reminds her.

“Well, he felt close enough to leave his house to _you_ ,” Harry says nastily, and John rubs his temples to push back the upcoming headache – not that it would help.

“Is that’s what this is about?” he asks tiredly. “That he left the house to me, not to you?”

“Well, he should have left it to me,” Harry returns stubbornly. “I’m the oldest, after all. And you with your gambling habit…”

“Stop it!” John grinds out, while Clara is desperately trying to silence Harry. “Stop it at this moment. You know very well that I was falling into the habit because of the total lack of support from home. Because I had no-one to talk to, no-one who would send me the occasional letter, who would give me a call from time to time. Because I had to empty my savings account again and again to bail you out of trouble after your drunken escapades. You’ve cost me everything I had, so don’t you _dare_ to hold again that bit of gambling against me!”

He stands and throws a few coins onto the table for his coffee.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” he says. “I know you mean it well, but don’t you make me share the same room with her ever again. We’re done with each other, Harry and I.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When he storms out of the pub, he’s surprised to see the police car idling on the other side of High Street.

“I thought you’d returned to Nether Wallop, Sergeant,” he says when Bradstreet gets out of the car and opens for him the door on the passenger side. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” the policeman waits patiently for him to climb into the passenger seat before slamming the door closed again. “I just had the feeling that your family time wouldn’t last long and thought I’d save you the coach fare.”

“What made you think I’d not be long?” John asks.

Bradstreet shrugs. “Your sister might be sober _now_ , but I recognise a habitual drinker when I see one. Is she a recovering alcoholic?”

“Not recovered enough,” John says grimly. “She keeps relapsing, which is why Clara left her a short time ago.”

“The two are an item?” there isn’t judgement in Bradstreet’s voice, just professional interest. He’s collecting information, that’s all.

“Legally married, actually,” John replies, “though in the process of getting a divorce. Unless Clara lets Harry talk her into another pointless effort of trying to save their marriage.”

“Which is a hopeless endeavour, eight times out of ten,” the sergeant comments dryly and starts the engine. 

John gives him an inquiring look. “Do I hear the voice of experience speaking?”

“She was run over a month after the divorce. She was blind drunk.”

“I’m sorry,” John offers after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

The sergeant shrugs. “Not your fault. Besides, it was a long time ago. I’ve come to terms with what happened, and so has Kate. It was harder for her, of course, she was her mother, after all, but she’s a tough girl.”

They drive in silence for a while, each thinking about his respective family.

“So, have you made up your mind about the house?” Bradstreet asks after a while.

“I believe I’ll keep it for the time being,” John says thoughtfully. “See if I can sell the stuff my uncle collected. At least some of the paintings should be saleable enough, although I’ll need to have someone who has a clue about such things take a look at them. Perhaps I can raise enough money to fix the house; or at the very least the roof. I can always put it up for sale later.”

The policeman nods slowly in agreement. “That is certainly true; and the people of Nether Wallop will greatly enjoy the spectacle. Who knows, we may even get behind the sighting of the zombie worker and the mysterious disappearances in the house.”

“You really believe what those homeless blokes supposedly saw?” John is not sure _he_ does.

“I’d have serious doubts when it comes to _Leon_ ,” Bradstreet clarifies. “His brain has been turned to mush by the drugs years ago, save for some basic vegetative functions. Doc, though, is a different matter. He may drink from time to time to keep himself warm, but his mind is still razor sharp. He used to be a civil servant in Andover before he lost everything due to a really nasty divorce – including the custody for his two teenage daughters – and ended up here about five years ago.”

“And he adopted the younger tramp as an ersatz family?” John asks.

Bradstreet shrugs. “We all need a purpose in our life. I’m sure Leon would be long dead by now without Doc – and perhaps it’s true the other way round, to. Are you really going to let them stay in that garden shed of yours?”

John shrugs, too. “Sure, why not? At least they keep an eye on the house.”

“They can do more than just that,” Bradstreet says. “I’m sure that at least Doc would be useful when you check your inventory lists. He has the right mindset for that sort of thing.”

John is a bit surprised. Like most other people, he never gave a second thought of what homeless people might have been before – or a first one, for that matter. Sergeant Bradstreet clearly sees these people from a different vantage point – and perhaps he’s right.

“I’ll think about it,” he says.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brownie points for those who get the _Torchwood_ reference.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06**

John spends the rest of the week with his late uncle’s private collection, comparing the items in the large room on the ground floor with the inventory list in Bradstreet’s office. The room is incredibly crowded, and after a day he ropes in Doc and Leon to help him, just as the sergeant has suggested.

Not that Leon is of much help – he mostly sits in a corner, dozing in front of him – but Doc proves eminently helpful indeed. The accuracy and thoroughness he’s used to from his former job come in handy. And they’re both glad to be _in_ the house for a change. Even without a working central heating system, it is a trifle warmer than the garden shed.

“I wish I had the money to have the heating fixed,” John rubs his hands together to warm them a bit. “Once we get rid of all this rubbish, the room could be actually nice.”

Doc shakes his head ominously. “I wouldn’t want to move in with the zombie, if I were you, Captain.”

He started calling John _Captain_ because calling each other _Doc_ would be silly, he explained. John doesn’t really mind, especially when he learns that Doc’s real name is also John. John Frobisher – not that he’d have used it much for the last five years or so.

“I thought you didn’t believe in zombies,” John comments, methodically packing the most likely fake gemstones strewn all over the central table into a bread box he’s found in the small kitchen behind the staircase.

“I don’t,” Doc has cleared one of the corners, where he’s now stapling the paintings, ordered by size; Clara has arranged for someone from the _National Antiquities Museum_ to come out and take a look later, so that nothing would be sold under its real value. “But _something_ is up there, and I don’t want to be the next guy who’ll vanish without a trace.”

“But no-one has ever seen the zombie, save for Leon here, have they?” John asks. The bread box is full now, and he haphazardly places it on the table, looking around for the next thing to do.

“No,” Doc admits, clapping his hands together to clean them from the years-old dust. “Of course, I never actively _tried_. I was happy enough to stay out of its way.”

“Hmmm,” John looks around distractedly. “Too bad we don’t have at least water in the house. How do you wash in that shed anyway?”

“I try to avoid it, at least during winter,” Doc confesses. “There’s a small pumping well in the back yard, but the water is ice cold at this time of the year.”

John hums his understanding. Of course, after years in the Afghan desert, he suffers from the cold more than most people.

“Well, I’ve had enough for today,” he then says. His injured shoulder is in fire from all the lifting and moving, and his leg is killing him. “I don’t think we’ll be done before the weekend, though.”

“Unlikely,” Doc agrees. “Especially as you have to wait for those experts from London to evaluate the paintings. You’ll have to postpone that sale you’ve planned for the next weekend, at the very least.”

John pulls a face. “Too bad. I’d like to have all this junk gone as soon as possible, to have a little breathing place in here. But we’ve barely gone through a tenth of it, and it’s possible that there’s more on the upper level.”

“I won’t go upstairs with you,” Doc warns. “There was never any activity _here_ , so this should be safe enough. But upstairs… no. Just no.”

John finds that a little ridiculous but he’s learned – both as a doctor and as a soldier – that fear is seldom rational. That doesn’t make it any less real, though.

“I wonder why Sergeant Bradstreet never found anything,” he says instead.

Doc shrugs. “These old houses often have hidden rooms, trapdoors or the likes. Unless one has a house plan or has lived in there long enough to discover all the secrets, one cannot know. And if you’re new to the place, there’s a chance to get killed before you’d discover _anything_.”

That’s certainly true, but John’s curiosity is piqued now. He could never resist a good mystery.

“I think a stake-out should work,” he muses. “If I don’t show my face here for a day or two, say, over the weekend, perhaps our resident zombie will decide to make an appearance.”

“And how does that help us?” Doc doesn’t seem to be taken by the idea.

“I’ll talk Miss Bradstreet and her friends into watching the house,” John explains.

Doc shakes his head. “They’ve already done so… to no end.”

“Yeah, because they were too far away; and besides, regular binoculars are of no use in the darkness,” John points out. “I’ll ask my friend Bill if he still has a pair of those night vision goggles – I’m sure he does, he’s just that sort of bloke – and we’ll organise a watch from the garden itself. That ought to work.”

Doc stares at him with shocked disbelief. “You’re serious.”

“God, yes!” John hasn’t felt so alive for a _very_ long time. Strategic planning is something he’s always been good at, and he never thought he’d get the chance again. 

Doc, understandably, is less enthusiastic.

“Leave me out of this,” he says. “My life may not be very glamorous at the moment, but it still beats being dead. And I’m responsible for Leon here.”

“Don’t worry,” John feels supremely confident, now that he’s got something to do again. “Everything will be all right.”

“That,” Doc says darkly, “is one of the famous Last Words. Let’s lock up the place and then you go home to Mrs Holding and sleep out your adrenaline high before you do something stupid."

John laughs and does as he’s told.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When he returns to _Dane Cottage_ , though, he finds an illustrious company in the drawing-room, stumbling right into the middle of the weekly event known as ‘Mrs Holding’s Friday Tea’. Among the regular guests is and elderly lady named Mrs Ponsonby – who turns out to be the mother of the rather unsympathetic estate agent from Stockbridge – as well as an elegant lady of middle age who is introduced as Miss Parker-Smythe and is, apparently Justin’s Mum. The inevitable Miss Morstan is also present, of course, playing host in her landlady’s stead, and there is a small, bird-like, seemingly ditzy old lady, clad in purple from head to toe – a colour that clashes horribly with her too dark red lipstick.

Mrs Holding exclaims loudly her delight about John joining them for tea, and introduces him to the lady in purple.

“Martha, dear, this is my new boarder, of whom I’ve already told you over the phone,” she says. “Doctor Watson, this is my sister, Martha Hudson. She’s visiting over the weekend.”

Mrs Hudson, while every bit as small-boned and fragile-looking as her sister, is clearly made of sterner stuff. Behind that ditzy old lady disguise she seems to have a razor-sharp mind, is frighteningly observant if her little side remarks about the other guests are any indication, and she shows great interest for John’s house.

“I don’t believe in zombies, of course, that’s nonsense,” she tells John over their respective cups of excellent tea. “But _something_ must have frightened those homeless chaps badly. I wish Sherlock were here; he’d solve this puzzle within the hour.”

“Sherlock?” John echoes, wondering what kind of name _that_ might be.

“My tenant,” Mrs Hudson explains. “He’s a… _consulting detective_ , he calls it. He loves puzzles and is very good at solving them. Even works for the police from time to time.”

“Well, I don’t think our little local mystery would be enough to lure here a private investigator from London,” John smiles.

“Oh, he’d come if I called,” Mrs Hudson assures him seriously. “We go way back, you see. A couple of years ago, when I was still living in Florida, my husband got himself sentenced to death. Fortunately, Sherlock was able to help out.”

“He stopped your husband being executed?” John clarifies.

She gives him a surprised look. “Oh no, dear! He made sure Frank was executed.”

 _That_ takes John’s breath away for a moment; but then he decides that the late Mr Hudson probably wasn’t a very nice man if his widow is so relieved to be rid of him permanently. He knows nothing about Florida and the criminal classes over there – nothing beyond what he’s seen in _CSI: Miami_ , that is – but Mrs Hudson seems a nice lady and she likely has a good reason to be grateful for her tenant’s interference.

He drops the topic and the conversation turns back to his house. Not everyone seems to be happy about his decision to keep it, though, however temporary the arrangement might be. Mrs Ponsonby still appears to be cross with her late brother-in-law for having sold the house to Mr Garbler a decade and a half ago, instead of leaving it to her son with everything else… or, at the very least, consulting ‘dear Thomas’, who could have sold it for a much better price – or bought it himself.

Her comments make John suspicious that Thomas Ponsonby actually might know something about the house – something no-one else knows. Why else would he want it so badly? As a piece of property, the house really isn’t worth much, and neither is Mr Garbler’s collection as far as John can tell. He hasn’t seen everything yet, of course, and he doesn’t know a thing about paintings or antique pottery, but he very much doubts that they will come across true treasures when they’re done with the inventory.

Justin Parker-Smythe arrives just in time to catch the tail end of the discussion – he is here to fetch his mother, apparently – and John finally has the chance to get a good, hard look at him. The young man is big, blond and blue-eyed, looking like those stereotypical jocks in US-series who are more interested in playing football than in studying. Since he doesn’t look much like either his mother or his uncle, John guesses he must take after his father who probably _was_ American. The similarities with that stereotype have to end with his looks, though, as he’s finished his studies successfully and works for his uncle’s law firm full time.

Not that he looks like a trainee lawyer right now. The lawyer must have stopped at home, for he’s wearing comfortable, worn-in jeans and a light blue jumper that brings out his eyes most flatteringly – much to the disdain of his mother who’s not above chastising him in front of a bunch of strangers. Justin isn’t particularly remorseful, however.

“Leave it, Mum,” he says sharply. “I’m not at work; I don’t have to wear those ridiculous suits in my free time. They make me feel like a mummy, and I’m not old enough for _that_.”

Miss Parker-Smythe shakes her head in exasperation but John laughs and decides that he likes the young man. The Parker-Smythes would obviously like Justin to stay in their own social circles and are most likely not happy to have him date Kate Bradstreet and be friends with the pizza boy, but Justin doesn’t look like somebody who would let his mother’s snobbish relatives dictate how he should live his life. As the heir apparent of the family business he can afford a little independence, too.

He seems genuinely delighted to see John again – every new face in Nether Wallop is a gift from the gods, he explains with disarming honesty – and is all for the planned stake-out instead of the sale that has to be postponed.

“I’ll talk to Billy, Andy and the others,” he promises. “And once you get us the right equipment, we’ll establish a constant watch.”

“You boys can hardly sit on a raised hide for days,” points out Miss Morstan, who is obviously a very practical-minded person.

“No, but if we give Doc a pre-paid phone, he can alert us whenever there’s any activity on the attic,” Justin replies.

“I don’t like you having anything to do with those tramps,” his mother declares with an unhappy grimace.

“You don’t like me having anything to do with _anyone_ but Uncle Dennis and his business associates,” Justin returns. “If it were up to you, I’d have no friends in my life and no fun, either. Sorry, but you don’t have a say in this. I’ve done my duty to the family, studied law to take over the family business eventually, even if it’s deadly dull, but I’m not willing to die of sheer boredom until then.”

Both Mrs Ponsonby and Miss Parker-Smythe are shocked by this declaration, although John has the feeling it isn’t the first time that at least Justin’s mum has heard it. This seems to be a long-standing disagreement between mother and son; one that won’t be easily solved.

“You didn’t really want to study law, did you?” he asks quietly, while the ladies change the topic to flower arrangements in the church or something similar.

Justin laughs. “God, no! I wanted to be a rugby player, or the lead singer of a hard rock band; or, at the very least, a construction worker. Something simple and honest, you know, not professional lying for money. For a while I even seriously considered joining the Army… or rather the Royal Air Force. Becoming a pilot would have been wicked cool.”

“And yet you obediently went to law school instead,” John says.

The young man shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s called family obligation. _Somebody_ has to take over the family business, and since Uncle Dennis doesn’t have kids, there’s nobody else to do so. Besides, that way Kate and I can work together, and that’s cool.”

“Your uncle doesn’t seem to agree,” John comments.

The young man shrugs again. “Yeah, that’s his problem, no mine.”

“It could be Kate’s problem, too,” John warns.

“Not if my uncle wants me to keep working for him,” Justin says darkly. “He should be glad to have a secretary like Kate. She’s smart and reliable and not afraid of working hard.”

“I don’t think Mr Parker-Smythe would make the mistake of harassing Kate,” says Miss Morstan, who’s been listening to them. “Only a fool would risk antagonising Sergeant Bradstreet, and whatever else your uncle might be, Justin, he’s not a fool.”

“True,” Justin admits; then he shakes himself like a wet dog and drops the topic. “Okay, Mum’s getting restless. I’ll take her home before her nasty side can fully emerge,” he fishes a simple, slightly knackered card from his pocket and hands it to John. “Call me when you’ve got your stuff together, Doctor Watson. This is my private number. Or you can send me word through Kate.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
John promises to do so, and the Parker-Smythes leave, followed soon by Mrs Ponsonby. Miss Morstan gently but firmly steers Mrs Holding to her room and carries the used tableware to the kitchen to wash up. Mrs Hudson offers her help but the offer is politely declined.

“You’re a guest in this house, Mrs Hudson,” Miss Morstan smiles winningly. “I’m sure you’ve got more than enough housework to do with that eccentric tenant of yours. Use the chance to relax and rest a little.”

With that, she closes the kitchen door, leaving Mrs Hudson with John in the drawing-room. Miss Hudson looks after her affectionately.

“A good girl,” she says. “A very good girl. Not made for living in the countryside, though. Not in the long run.”

“Do you know her well?” John perks up at once at the chance of learning more about the vivacious Miss Morstan.

Mrs Hudson nods thoughtfully. “Oh, yes. She was my tenant for the last year she went to university.”

“Tell me more about her,” John asks, and after a moment of hesitation Mrs Hudson launches into Miss Morstan’s life story – as far as she is familiar with it.

“Well, she was born in India, where her father served at the time. She lost her mother at a very young age, and when she was still but a child, her father put her on a plane and sent her to boarding school in Scotland. She’s been on her own ever since, the poor lamb. Her father supposedly returned to England some ten years ago but mysteriously vanished upon his arrival; they never had the chance to even meet.”

“That must have been hard on her,” John, too, had lost his parents at a fairly young age, but at least he got to know them – and the chance to realise that at least where his father was concerned, it wasn’t such a loss, really.

Mrs Hudson shrugs. “Still better than living with a parent who couldn’t show her any love. I think he blamed her for the death of her mother, that unreasonable man. In any case, she had her trust funds, could go to university and became a teacher, which is something she enjoys very much. Many people have it much worse.”

“How did she end up with your sister?” John asks because he has to agree with Mrs Hudson: Mary Morstan wasn’t made to live out her life in the rural, boring countryside. She belongs to a big city that’s brimming with life.

“Oh, that was born out of necessity,” Mrs Hudson explains. “She used to work for a certain Cecily Forrester in Southampton: a very wealthy businesswoman who wanted her small children home-schooled. When the children became old enough to go to grammar school, Mary was no longer needed there; and the only job available within reach was here, in Nether Wallop. She then all but adopted Geraldine, which is a blessing, really it is. As you’ve probably realised, Dr Watson, my poor sister does need a minder; and I can’t come down from London as often as I’d like to. I’ve got a hip, you know.”

John resists the urge to point out that she has _two_ , actually. 

“And you have your own tenant to care for,” he says instead.

The old lady nods. “Sometimes I feel as if I have an overgrown three-year-old in my care. I mean, Sherlock _does_ have a brilliant mind, but he’d forget to eat if I didn’t feed him and would sink into compete chaos if I didn’t clean up around him from time to time. Even though he really hates it when I do. Those… _experiments_ he makes in the kitchen,” she shudders. “Last week I found _eyeballs_ in the microwave. _Eyeballs_!”

“Sounds like my late uncle,” John comments. “You should see that room on the ground floor – no eyeballs, thank God, at least I haven’t found any _yet_ , but fossil bones, an entire cabinet of them! And plaster skulls on top of the shelves.”

“Thank you, dear, but I think I’ll decline, although I’m sure Sherlock would enjoy the place very much,” the old lady rises from her armchair a little stiffly. “Well, I think it’s time for my herbal soothers; and then I’ll probably have a bit of rest.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She leaves and John hobbles up to his own room as well, where he calls Bill Murray. Bill agrees to collect his stuff, _including his laptop_ – which means, of course, that he’ll get John’s highly illegal firearm, too – and bring everything with him to Nether Wallop. Not that _that_ would be much. Whatever John possesses – with the exception of his books that are still in storage – would fit into two cardboard boxes and one military-issue duffel.

He likes it that way. Travelling light is what he’s done all his life, which is why he’s so overwhelmed by all the junk he has inherited from the late Mr Garbler. He’s simply not used to have lots of stuff around him, and the sooner he can get rid of it the better. He does feel the need to have his gun with him, though, especially after what Doc has told him about people disappearing in the house.

The next day is Saturday, which means that out of all his voluntary helpers only Billy Morgan has to work. That isn’t a bad thing, though, as he provides them with fresh pizza – regularly ordered by Justin Parker-Smythe – every two or three hours. Miss Morstan cajoles Sergeant Bradstreet into lending her his car and transports a huge tea kettle over from the school. There’s still no electricity in the house – Andy Davis, another friend of Kate and Justin’s who happens to be the only electrician of the village, explains something about faulty circuitry, which he promises to repair as soon as possible – but Miss Morstan also borrows a small burner that the school uses on holiday trips to heat up water, so they can manage.

“It reminds me of a holiday camp,” Bill Murray declares when he arrives around noon and takes in the sight of the young (or, in Doc’s case, not so young) people eating pizza, drinking tea and trying to bring some semblance of order into the chaos of what’s John’s house.

In truth, the huge room on the ground floor isn’t as much chaotic as overcrowded. Certain parts of Mr Garbler’s collection – mostly the mineral and anatomical samples, as well as the pottery – the old man kept in cupboards and cabinets, sorted and labelled. It’s the paintings, the African and Asian masks and the various knick-knacks that need to be sorted. There’s even a totem pole among all the rubbish, although John seriously doubts it would be the genuine item.

The practical-minded Miss Morstan has also organised a dozen or so large cardboard boxes from a supermarket in Winchester, unfolded them in the anteroom and written on their side with thick permanent marker words like _China, Silver, Books_ and the likes. That makes sorting the stuff a lot easier.

Unfortunately, they have yet to find anything of true value . The late Mr Garbler seems to have had a great fondness for wall-clocks as well, both the hanging and the standing versions, but while they do look pretty, they aren’t real antiquities.

“Here, this should bring in good money,” Justin examines a massive silver candlestick closely. “It has the hallmark, so it’s genuine. I think you should take it to the antiquities shop in Andover, Dr Watson. To waste it in a house clearance sale would be a shame.”

John nods in agreement because it’s true that he can’t afford to lose money due to ignorance.

“You should take a look at the upper levels,” Bill Murray suggests. “Perhaps there are more of these things.”

Since there are enough helpers to continue the work in the ‘museum’ without him, John finds that a good idea – despite Doc’s protests – and he and Bill are soon climbing the still surprisingly stable wooden stairs to the first floor. There they find a fairly ruined bathroom – the sink hangs askew, the mirrored door of the small cabinet above it shattered, the bath-tub half-full of extremely dirty water, junk and even dead mice –, two bedrooms and something that might have been a study or a small library or both, if the dusty and partially rotten books filling the broken shelves are any indication.

“Somebody was clearly looking for something here,” Bill comments, looking at the books, small statuettes, ashtrays, candlesticks and other knick-knacks strewn over the dirty rugs,

“Something specific,” John clarifies, picking up one of the candlesticks – clearly the second half of an identical pair, the first of which they’ve just found downstairs. “Or else they wouldn’t have left _these_ here.”

“Good for you, bad for them,” Bill says philosophically. “Let’s take downstairs everything that looks like silver. That Justin kid seems to have a bit of knowledge. He can tell you if they’re genuine or not.”

“God, I hope they are!” John replies fervently. “I could use the money.”

They collect two more candlesticks, a cigarette case that also seems to be solid silver, an open wooden box with tableware – spoons, forks, knives, cake servers the whole nine miles – and a few silver cups (at least they _hope_ the things are silver) and take them downstairs. Justin examines the booty and declares that everything is indeed silver.

Everything but the tableware, that is.

“It’s so-called hotel silver,” he explains, "the sort you can see in better hotels, but not in the really good ones. This mark here says ‘60’, which means that there’s only a _very_ small percentage of actual silver in the alloy. But the things are nicely made, and they’re fairly old. Properly cleaned you’ll certainly find a buyer for this set.”

‘How do you know so much about these things?” John asks in surprise.

“I was trained to,” Justin replies. “Our firm often has to do with inheritances. We do employ experts in the more complicated cases, of course, but we need to have _some_ experience in these things. Uncle Dennis made me work at a jeweller’s for two months in one of my university holidays. Besides, as you may have realised, Mum’s a bit of a snob. She always wants to be sure that whatever she buys has financial value. Simply pretty won’t do for her.”

“You must have had a really strange childhood,” Bill Murray says.

Justin sighs. “You have no idea. Anything else of interest upstairs?”

“Mostly books; and mostly rotten ones,” John replies pessimistically. “Water has clearly come through the broken roof repeatedly. The books, the furniture, the rugs… everything got wet, and there’s a lot of mould and dust everywhere. I wouldn’t go back up without protective masks. Mould spores can be dangerous.”

“But you _will_ have to clean out the place eventually,” Bill points out. “Preferably before the mould creeps down to the ground floor and ruins everything here, too.”

“We should get a container; a really big one,” Kate Bradstreet suggests. “We could place it right under the window of the room upstairs, and then go up in protective gear and throw everything through the window, directly into the container.”

“A container costs money,” John reminds her. “Money that I don’t have. Or else I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“You can borrow one from Mr Reno,” says Billy Morgan, who’s just arrived with a fresh round of pizza. “That wouldn’t cost so much. Andy can put in a good word for you; he works for the man, after all.”

The lanky, curly-haired blond electrician nods in agreement. “I can try. Mr Reno is a reasonable man.”

Doc mutters something under his breath that doesn’t sound like agreement, but the young people agree with Billy. In the meantime the pizza is gone, and they continue working in the late Mr Garbler’s private museum.

“Let’s do the fossils next,” Miss Morstan says. “Mr Hope, the headmaster of our school, is interested in them; and in the plaster skulls. He might even be able to pay a small sum, purchasing them for the science lab.”

That’s fine with John, and so they clean out the small cabinet with the bones next, since he intends to keep the pretty little piece of furniture itself. When they are nearly done, Justin discovers a small hidden lever on the back of the cabinet. He pulls on it experimentally; there’s a strange, grinding noise, and then the cabinet slowly turns around, together with a section of the wall.

“Now _that’s_ cool,” Bill Murray says. “A real, down-to-earth secret chamber!”

“Seems so,” John agrees. “All right everyone, stay back! We don’t know what’s in there, so better be careful. Bill, you’re with me!”

The others obey his ‘Captain Watson' voice immediately. Clearly, he hasn’t lost his touch yet, which is good. He doesn’t want the young people – especially Kate Bradstreet – to see his illegal firearm, unless it’s inevitable.

He doesn’t know what to expect upon entering the secret chamber. He only knows it wasn’t _this_. Backing off, he allows the piece of wall to turn back and fall shut again; then he looks at Kate grimly.

“We should call your father; this falls under his jurisdiction.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The facts about the decomposition of a human body after death are taken from the EnkiVillage website. I hope I haven’t misinterpreted anything.  
> Athelney Jones, his appearance and some of his speech patterns have been borrowed from “The Sign of Four”.  
> Some of the dialogue between John and Sherlock is taken from “A Study in Pink”. Obviously, as our favourite consulting detective would say. My heartfelt thanks to Ariane De Vere and her excellent episode transcripts.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07**

Detective Sergeant Bradstreet arrives twenty minutes later and stares at the three-feet-tall, beautiful Buddha statue made of some silky green stone – and at the mummified body lying in front of it, wrapped into an old rug – in understandable confusion.

“Are you sure you called the right guy, Dr Watson?” he asks. “I’m a policeman, not an archaeologist. I don’t know a thing about mummies.”

“Neither do I,” John replies. “But as a doctor, I know a great deal about decomposition. Therefore I can tell you with a ninety-nine per cent certainty that _this_ mummy hasn’t been lying here any longer than perhaps four or five years, tops.”

“Shouldn’t the body have decomposed in that time, though?” the sergeant asks.

John shakes his head. “The time it takes for a dead body to decompose depends on a number of factors. For example, if a dead body is inside a coffin and buried deep underground for instance, it could even take fifty years for every tissue to disappear. However, if the body is exposed to the elements, it can even skeletonise in a space of a year. The teeth and bones, on the other hand, can last even for a hundred years if the soil is not highly acidic and warm.”

“And what if the environment is particularly dry?” Justin inquires. “Bodies buried in the sand of the Egyptian desert underwent a natural mummification; that gave the Pharaohs the idea of mummies in the first place, didn’t it?”

“Apparently,” John agrees. “And something similar was the case here.”

“How that?” Miss Morstan asks with a frown. “Hampshire doesn’t have a particularly dry climate, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” John admits. “But this… this secret chamber hasn’t been opened for years, I reckon, and the air inside is _very_ dry. Fortunately for us, the rainwater hasn’t leaked through to the ground floor yet,” he looks at Bradstreet. “Any idea who this guy might be?”

The sergeant shakes his head. “Not at first sight. Of course, he probably looked a bit different alive. It _is_ a he, isn’t it?”

John gives the body a closer look. “Yeah, seems like that, based on the shape of the shoulders and the hips. The post-mortem will tell us for sure.”

“At least we can make an educated guess about the cause of death,” taking a ball-pen out of his pocket, Bradstreet carefully moves the dry, thinning hair of the corpse out of the way to reveal a large wound on the back of the skull, which is clearly broken and crusted in some brown substance, most likely dried blood.

John nods. “Yeah, blunt head trauma. Bashed in the head with something big and heavy. My guess would be a mallet or the blunt end of an axe blade.”

“The zombie!” Leon cries out, shaking in terror. “The zombie killed him with his axe. He killed all those blokes, and he will kill us all. We must get out of here, Doc; we can’t stay a day longer!”

“Whoever killed this man, I’m quite sure they were very much alive,” John mutters under his breath while Doc tries to calm his visibly upset buddy down.

The sergeant nods in agreement. “My thoughts exactly. Well, I’ll give my superiors a call and have the body brought to the morgue. I’m afraid this is a crime scene now, Dr Watson – at the very least the secret chamber is. I must ask everyone to leave now; as soon as the coroner is done, I’ll have to seal the entire ground floor.”

“Great, just great!” John grouses. “Now I’ll have to wait days, perhaps even weeks until I can go on with the inventory. Just what I needed!”

“I am really sorry, Dr Watson,” Bradstreet replies with a shrug, “but a murder is a murder, even if it happened years ago. There’s nothing I can do.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“That was really unkind of Sergeant Bradstreet,” Mrs Holding exclaims later on when they’re having tea with some of the helpers and she gets to hear about the grisly discovery. “To think that now that horrible Inspector Athelney Jones will come and sniffle around your house and the entire village, asking rude questions and digging around in people’s private lives…”

“Do you know the man personally, Mrs Holding?” John asks.

“ _Everybody_ knows Athelney Jones,” Kate Bradstreet says with a snort. “He’s an idiot; and a rude idiot at that. Dad would have been promoted a decade ago, had Athelney Jones not taken over his cases by force – and ruined them.”

That Detective Inspector Athelney Jones isn’t a pleasant person John realises later in the afternoon, when a very stout, portly man wearing a drab grey suit strides heavily into the drawing-room of the frightened Mrs Holding. The man is red-faced, burly and obese, with a pair of very small, twinkling eyes that look keenly out from under swollen and puffy pouches, belying his good-natured appearance. He is closely followed by an apologetic Sergeant Bradstreet.

“Here’s a business!” the man declares in a muffled, husky voice. “How lucky that I happened to be out at Stockbridge, over another case! I was at the station when I got the call.”

The expression upon Sergeant Bradstreet’s face clearly shows that _he_ doesn’t find the fact that the inspector was immediately available a lucky one. John cannot blame him. _He_ dislikes the man instantly, too.

“Bad business! Bad business!” Athelney Jones repeats, apparently pleased with the sound of his own voice. “But who are all these people? Why is the house full like a rabbit warren? I said I wanted to speak the owner of the house, no-one else.”

“Doctor Watson is the owner of _The Veteran’s House_ ,” Bradstreet explains with forced patience. “He and two of the ladies are currently living here. The third lady is the sister of Mrs Holding and is visiting her right now.”

“Oh, a doctor!” the inspector perks up. “That comes in handy. You saw the body, I understand? What d’you think the man died of?”

John nods. “I did, but I’m hardly qualified to give an answer without a proper examination.

The inspector waves off his concern with a fleshy hand. “Oh, come on! Never be ashamed to own up!”

“Well, in that case my professional opinion is that the man got his head bashed in with a blunt object,” John says with a shrug. “But we’ll really need a post-mortem to clear up the facts.”

“Facts!” Athelney Jones echoes, satisfied. “Stern facts here – no theories. Still, we can’t deny that one can hit the nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. How was the window?”

“The room doesn’t _have_ a window,” Bradstreet replies through gritted teeth. “It is a hidden chamber, the likes of which you can see in old, black-and-white Edgar Wallace films, Inspector. It could only be opened by a hidden lever from inside the small cabinet that stood directly in front of the entrance.”

“Ha!” the inspector declared triumphantly. “I have a theory. These flashes come upon me sometimes. What do you think of this, Sergeant? Those tramps living in the garden killed the man for his money and put the body into the secret chamber because they thought no-one would ever find it there. That’s common sense!”

“Except that they had no way to know about the secret chamber and would never enter the house on their own, seeing as they’re deadly afraid of the so-called zombie worker,” John comments.

The inspector stares at him in disbelief. “Dear me! You aren’t telling me that you believe in that nonsense?”

“Of course not,” John replies. “But if they _had_ killed the man, why did they warn us that several people who entered the house were never seen again? We didn’t even know about _that_.”

“That’s easy,” the inspector says dismissively. “They simply wanted to turn suspicion away from themselves. But once I’ve questioned them thoroughly, they’ll come out with the truth. Sergeant, I want you to arrest those men and keep them in the cells of the police station until further instructions.”

“We only have got _one_ arrest cell at the station,” Bradstreet informs him dryly.

The inspector shrugs. “It isn’t so as if they didn’t have time to synchronise their testimony already. Put them into the same cell and I’ll interrogate them tomorrow. Doctor Watson, I want you to come to the police station at well. I want to know how did you come into possession of _The Veteran’s House_.”

“I _inherited_ it,” John tells him. “Some four years ago.”

“Then you can certainly show me the documents,” Athelney Jones says. “I want to see them.”

“What for?” Bradstreet asks. “They were set up by _Parker & Brockman_ in Stockbridge and verified by a notary. They are certainly genuine.”

“Says you,” the inspector replies. “One can never be careful enough with previously unknown heirs suddenly popping up all over the place. Tomorrow morning, Doctor Watson; at ten o’clock, sharp. I’ll need to talk to the pathologist now.”

And with that, he squeezes himself through the rather narrow door of Mrs Holding’s drawing room and leaves the house.

John looks at the sergeant. “What are you going to do now?”

Bradstreet sighs. “Arresting Leon and Doc, what else? I cannot ignore a direct order of a superior. At least they’ll have it clean and warm for a change, and I can feed them at the costs of the Hampshire Police. But I’m really worried that Athelney Jones will manage to send them to prison based on some indirect evidence.”

“Unlikely,” John says with a snort. “It would be hard to prove them guilty of anything else but living rough.”

“Hard but not impossible,” Bradstreet replies. “And mistakes do happen. Our legal system is not infallible. I’d hate to see Doc imprisoned for a murder I’m sure he didn’t commit.”

“What about Leon?”

“Leon would be actually better off in prison, where he’d be fed regularly and get a chance to become clean,” Bradstreet says. “But he isn’t a murderer, either. He is a druggie, yes, but not a violent one; never was. I just don’t know how to prove it to anyone. Especially to Athelney Jones who only believes in facts – or what he _thinks_ are facts.”

Mrs Hudson, who’s been listening to them with keen interest, clears her throat apologetically.

“In that case, Sergeant, perhaps it would be prudent to employ professional help,” she says. “And I believe I know just the right person.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning John and the ladies are sitting at the breakfast table when the bell rings. Miss Morstan goes to answer it and returns with a tall, skinny, very pale man clad in a long Belstaff coat, with a blue cashmere scarf looped around his neck. The man has a full head of unruly black curls and the most extraordinary eyes John has ever seen. They are ever so slightly slanted and seem to change their colour between green, blue and slate grey constantly.

 _Heterochromia_ , John identifies the phenomenon and has to suppress a grin because with his dramatic cheekbones, the long black coat and the way he moves as if he would own the place – any place – the man has a certain air of Count Dracula about him.

Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, seems genuinely happy to see the guy and hurries towards him with open arms.

“Sherlock!” she exclaims, getting a hug and a kiss on the cheek from the newcomer. “You’ve come!”

_Ah. The eccentric tenant, then. What did she say he was? A consulting detective? Well, perhaps he’ll be able to drum some common sense into Athelney Jones._

“Of course I came,” the man says in a deep, velvety baritone and John notices Mrs Holding all but swooning from it. “You said it was a mummified body in a secret chamber and Athelney Jones being an idiot again – how could I _not_ come?” he looks around. “So, who’s my client?”

After a moment of hesitation John steps forward. “I reckon that would be me… but I won’t be able to pay you much, I’m afraid. Not before I’ve sold the junk I inherited. Doctor John Watson,” he adds, stretching out his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the newcomer shakes his hand, gives it a cursory glance and then asks. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John is so shocked he can barely ask back. “Sorry, what?”

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man repeats.

John hesitates, then looks across to Mrs Hudson, who beams like a proud mother whose two-year-old has just done something really clever.

“Afghanistan,” he finally says. “But how did you know ...?”

The detective rolls his eyes. “I didn’t know, I _saw_. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says _military_. You introduced yourself as _Doctor_ Watson, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq. 

He loudly clicks the ‘k’ sound at the end of the final word. It echoes in the stunned silence of the room.

“That ... was amazing,” John finally says. 

The man – Sherlock – looks at him in surprise. “You think so?”

John nods with emphasis. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s my Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson declares proudly.

For the first time, the detective shows signs of genuine amusement. 

“That’s not what people normally say, though,” he tells John, who asks with interest.

“What _do_ people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’!” Sherlock replies, and they both giggle for a moment. Then the consulting detective becomes all business again. “Now, tell me everything from the beginning.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Later Sherlock Holmes insists on accompanying John at the police station and once there, he gives Detective Inspector Athelney Jones such a hideously false smile that it nearly gives John a tooth-ache.

“I think you‘ll remember me, Detective Inspector,” he says.

“Way, of course I do!” the inspector wheezes. “Sherlock Holmes, the theorist! Remember you! I’ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case.”

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” Sherlock asks still faking overdone friendliness.

“It’s true you set us on the right track,” the inspector admits reluctantly. “But you’ll have to admit that it was more by good luck than by good guidance.”

“On the contrary: it was a piece of very simple reasoning,” Sherlock replies icily.

There’s so much hostility in his voice that even Athelney Jones falls silent for a moment. Then the man shakes off the uncomfortable feeling and turns to John. “I’ll see those documents of yours now, Doctor Watson.”

John clenches his teeth but lays out his verified documents for the inspector to examine. He is furious; it isn’t as if he’d ever _wanted_ the damned house, but it’s legally his, and not only has it become a crime scene, but the swanky inspector has the cheek to question his ownership! He begins to understand why everyone in Nether Wallop seems to despise Athelney Jones; but understanding doesn’t help his foul mood one bit.

He _knows_ the inspector won’t find anything wrong with the documents. Had there been a problem, Mr Parker-Smythe would have found it, the solicitor being much better versed in legal stuff than the policeman. He is relieved nonetheless when Athelney Jones sweeps the documents together with obvious disappointment, declaring them all valid, and announces that he’ll interrogate the homeless suspects next.

“Good luck with that,” Bradstreet comments dryly, while his superior squeezes his bulk into the arrest cell. “Doc won’t speak as much as a word – not that I’d blame him – and all Leon can mumble is drug-induced nonsense.”

“I’m not so certain about that,” Sherlock says, and John realises with surprise that he’s actually serious. “I’ll speak with him once the fat idiot has left.”

Bradstreet seems uncomfortable; it’s unclear whether because Sherlock has just called his immediate superior a fat idiot (even though he might agree with the statement) or because of a civilian wanting to interrogate a suspect. Because Leon is a suspect, at least officially, regardless of the fact that Bradstreet doesn’t personally agree with having him arrested.

“I’m not sure I can allow that, Mr Holmes,” he says.

“Sherlock, please,” the consulting detective interrupts. “Mr Holmes is my brother, and trust me, you wouldn’t want _him_ to get involved.”

The absolute conviction in his voice throws Bradstreet off-balance for a moment; but only for a moment.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says dryly. “All right, you may speak with Leon; although I don’t know what you hope to learn from him. His brain has been addled due to the drugs he’s shot himself full with all his adult life.”

“Oh, believe me, Sergeant, I have some experience with unravelling the seemingly mindless ramblings of drug addicts,” Sherlock say softly.

There is something in his voice that makes John suddenly hyperaware. Could it be that this brilliant man, too, is a junkie? Or used to be one? ‘Cause _that_ would be a criminal waste!

Before he can come up with a question the other man might actually answer, the cell door flings open and Athelney Jones bursts through it like an irritated rhinoceros.

“This is serious business here,” he wheezes. “I want these men kept in custody, Sergeant, until the end of the investigation. They refuse to cooperate, and I won’t risk them escape in an unobserved moment. They’re most suspicious: the older one clearly has something to hide, and the younger one is completely out of his mind. They’re a danger to the inhabitants of this village.”

“Yes, sir,” Bradstreet withstands the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. Still the inspector is satisfied with his answer and finally leaves.

“About time,” Sherlock comments cynically. “I’ll speak with Leon now. _Alone_.”

“No,” the sergeant says decisively. “I can’t allow that. Either I’ll be there or you won’t speak with him at all.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” the consulting detective cries in exasperation. “All right, be there, but keep out of my way!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It shows how much Sergeant Bradstreet is already resigned to the fact that things have been taken out of his hands that only a few minutes later Sherlock Holmes finds himself in the policeman’s office with Leon, the homeless junkie. The office doesn’t have one of the stereotypical, one-sidedly transparent windows, so John and the sergeant watch the proceedings from the background, trying to be as unassuming as they can, which is a great deal easier for John than it is for the sergeant.

It appears that Sherlock Holmes has indeed ample experience dealing with drug addicts, because after providing Leon with a large mug of hot coffee, the young man gradually opens up to him.

“Tell me about the zombie,” Sherlock orders brusquely, after they’ve discussed the intricacies of living rough for a short while. “Tell me all the details.”

“I just saw him once, up in the attic,” Leon explains, obviously relieved that somebody is finally willing to believe him. “And only its face, mind you. I was down in the garden, so that I couldn’t make out the features, but there was something… something unnatural about that face.”

“Define _unnatural_ ,” Sherlock prompts.

Leon shrugs uncertainly. “I dunno… it didn’t even seem human, you know. And its colour… it was a living chalk white, with something set and rigid about it.”

“Could it be a mask?” Sherlock suggests, but Leon shakes his head.

“Nah; part of it seemed as if it’s been burned badly.”

“Burned?” Sherlock echoes doubtfully.

Leon gives him a baleful look. “I know what burn marks look like, man. One of my mates died in a fire; he looked like that after the pathologist was done with him – as if his features had melted together.”

“That still doesn’t mean that your so-called zombie is actually dead,” John intervenes from the background. “Sometimes people can survive a fire horribly disfigured. That would explain the looks.”

“We shouldn’t form theories before having all the necessary facts,” Sherlock says, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “I need to see the body first; then we’ll go on zombie hunt,” he looks at John expectantly. “Well, Doctor Watson? Are you with me?”

John closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the long-missed rush of adrenaline. “Oh God, yes!”

“Do you really think Detective Inspector Athelney Jones will allow you to see the body?” Bradstreet asks doubtfully.

Sherlock gives him another one of those hideously false smiles. “I don’t intend to _ask_ him, Sergeant.”

Bradstreet shakes his head. “Mr Holmes… _Sherlock_. I cannot condone any illegal act on your part. That could cost me my job and frankly, that’s something I can’t afford.”

Sherlock waves off his concerns. “Don’t worry. If needs must be, my brother can get me access to the morgue. He is an annoying git, but he does have his uses.”

“I thought you didn’t want him to be involved,” John comments.

“I don’t,” Sherlock admits. “I _never_ do. But for the case I’ll endure his meddling if I have to,” he whips out his phone, looks at it and scowls. “No signal. Sergeant, can I borrow your phone?”

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Bradstreet points at the phone sitting on his desk.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I prefer to text.”

Bradstreet feels around himself, then he shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t have it on me. Left it in the flat somewhere.”

“Here,” John clears his throat and offers the consulting detective his phone. “Use mine.”

That earns him a surprised look. “Thank you!” Sherlock texts away with a speed that makes his thumbs appear a blur, then gives the phone back. “That will take care of the morgue problem,” he turns back to Leon. “So. What was the last time you saw any activity in the attic?”

It is a simple enough question but Leon has clearly a problem answering it. “Dunno… Before the little man showed up, I guess…”

“What little man?” Sherlock knows, of course, but wants Leon to tell him more.

Leon points at John. “Him. Sarge here says he’s the new owner of the house.”

“He is,” Sherlock agrees. “But you have to be a bit more precise. The house had stood empty for four years before he showed up.”

The concept is obviously too complicated for Leon who’s lost his sense for time quite a while ago. “Had it? I can’t remember. Doc will know. He knows things better than me.”

“I think I can help with that,” Bradstreet stands, takes the desktop calendar from his desk, leafs back a few weeks. “The last time I searched _The Veteran’s House_ was back in October. Leon had complained about the ‘zombie’ again two or three days previously.”

“And you found nothing?” it isn’t really a question on Sherlock’s part, but the sergeant answers it nonetheless.

“Nothing. Not then, not in the previous cases. And believe me, I’ve searched that bloody house at least a dozen times in the last four years. If there _is_ somebody – and I’m not saying it isn’t – I never found it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Sherlock says it so matter-of-factly that it isn’t even really insulting. “Like most people, you see but don’t _observe_. It doesn’t matter. I’ll search the house myself.”

“Shouldn’t you ask Doctor Watson for permission first?” Bradstreet suggests mildly.

Sherlock shrugs. “Why should I? He _wants_ the mystery solved – don’t you?” he asks John, and John nods.

“Sure, search away as much as you want. Who knows what other hiding places you’re gonna find yet.”

“I’m sure I will,” Sherlock claps his hands together in obvious delight. “Well, gotta dash now. The pathologist is waiting for me. I’ll contact you when I’m back.”

And with that, he leaves the police station in a dramatic swirl of coat tails. Bradstreet looks after him thoughtfully for a moment before escorting Leon back to his cell.

“Doctor Watson,” he then says, “may I take a look at your phone?”

John understands the intention behind the request at once: the sergeant wants to check whom the eccentric consulting detective sent his text message.

“Let’s hope he hasn’t cleaned out the Sent folder,” he replies, handing Bradstreet the phone.

“it doesn’t seem so,” the sergeant opens the folder and finds the message in question. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t tell us much.”

“May I?” John takes back his phone and looks at the screen with a frown.

There stands: mycroft@dsux.org. Need access to Hampshire morgue in case of mummified corpse ASAP. SH.

“He didn’t even require an answer,” Bradstreet says. “And he just ran off to meet the pathologist, without the slightest doubt that he’d be granted access. Who the hell might his brother be?”

“I’m not sure I _want_ to know,” John pockets his phone again. “I don’t think it would be good for my continued health… _or_ yours.”

“You’re probably right,” Bradstreet agrees. “God, I hate these posh gits who believe they own every place they enter. Still, he might be useful, this time – he might be able to do things I can’t do. So, what are your plans for the rest of the day, Doctor Watson? Going back to your house?”

John shakes his head. “Nah, I had enough excitement for a day or two. Besides, I’m sure Mr Holmes – _Sherlock_ – will be standing in my room first thing tomorrow, demanding to go to the house with him, and keeping up with him won’t be easy on my bad leg. So I’ll give it a bit of a rest today.”

“That might be a good idea,” Bradstreet nods. “I won’t be able to go with you tomorrow – I actually have work to do – but if you learn anything…”

“You’ll be the first I’ll call,” John promises.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I don't have to explain the reference to Dr Joseph Bell, right? *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
** Chapter 08  
  
Surprisingly enough, Sherlock Holmes isn't the first person who shows up in the next morning at _Dane Cottage_ to speak with John. It is a man in his early forties; a man who looks every bit like the stereotypical adventurer – or, at the very least, the Hollywood version of it. He is a good six feet tall, broad-shouldered and wide-chested, with boyish good looks and a charming grin. Although boyish types usually don't age gracefully, _this_ man still looks surprisingly youthful for his age. The intense, almost electric blue eyes, the cleft chin and the uncanny amount of even, blinding white teeth probably have something to do with the effect. He wears comfortable jeans with ankle boots, a fur-lined denim jacket and a genuine cowboy hat, and John recognises him as American before he could even open his mouth.

"Doctor Watson?" he asks, stretching out a big hand; he does have an American accent, but with an underlying Scottish burr in it. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jungle Jones."

"That's an odd name," John comments. They shake hands and John is relieved that the other man doesn't make the stupid attempt to crush his bones – not that he'd succeed. John might be small, but he's stronger than he looks, and there's nothing wrong with his right hand. "Not your real one, I reckon."

"No; my officially recorded name is Indiana," at John's disbelieving look the man grins ruefully. "Yeah, I know it's hard to believe. The first Indiana Jones movie came out a couple of years after I was born, and Mom had such a terrible crush on Harrison Ford that she had my name changed. You can imagine what I went through at school – although, at least, it taught me to defend myself at a very tender age."

"You could have changed it back upon reaching legal age," John offers.

The man shrugs. "True; but by then I grew so used to it that it didn't matter. Besides, I'm better known by my nickname in these days."

"Yeah, right, I've heard about you – you're what, an amateur archaeologist?" John tries to phrase his question politely and the man grins.

"A treasure hunter, according to Sergeant Bradstreet."

John can't help grinning back. "And? Is he wrong?"

"Not entirely," Jungle Jones admits. " _Every_ archaeologist, amateur _or_ pro, is a treasure hunter. The only question is what do they consider a treasure and what do they intend to do with it."

"I see," John says after a short pause. "So, what treasure are _you_ after this time?"

"I'm mostly interested in Central America," the other man explains. "From lost Mexican cities down to Olmec masks…"

"Well, my uncle certainly collected an awful lot of masks, but I don't know whether they are genuine ones or bought on a flea market," John says.

"You'd be surprised by the things one finds on flea markets," Jungle Jones replies seriously. "A lot of people have no idea about the value of what they believe is junk."

"And you thing my uncle was one of those people?"

"What I think Doctor Watson, is that your uncle might have unknowingly purchased part of the Agra treasure."

John gives the man a blank look, wordlessly urging him to elaborate.

"The Agra treasure was the wedding dowry of an Indian princess that got lost back around the end of the nineteenth century," Jungle Jones explains. "A collection of jewellery, single gems and gold ingots, apparently. Its current worth is estimated at half a million pounds."

 _That_ shocks John for a moment. "And you think that stuff is somewhere in _my_ house?"

The archaeologist nods. "It is a strong possibility, yes. The greater part of the treasure was hidden inside a jade Buddha statue. It's a known fact that the statue itself was brought to England by a British officer by the name of Hamilton – who also happened to be the first owner of _The Veteran's House_. And you _did_ find a jade Buddha statue in a secret chamber yesterday, didn't you?"

"We found a Buddha statue which is _green_ ," John corrects, wondering who of the helpers might have provided Jungle Jones with that piece of information. "Whether it is jade or not, I can't tell; or if it has a secret drawer or whatnot."

"Would you allow me to examine the statue?" the archaeologist asks. "I'm experienced enough to determine whether it's from the right period or not, at the very least."

"I'm afraid the ground floor of the house has been declared a crime scene," John replies. "You'll have to ask Sergeant Bradstreet."

"Yeah, 'cos he'd let me enter a crime scene," Jungle Jones comments cynically.

John shrugs. "Well, if it's really _the_ Buddha you're looking for, it's been sitting there for more than a hundred years. Another week or two would hardly count."

The genially handsome face of the other man darkens in fury for a fleeting moment; then he plasters that wide, white smile on again.

"You are right, of course. Well... can I hope that you'll inform me once the investigation is over?"

John is quite sure that the man will know that before him but sees no reason to antagonise him. "Sure, why not? You've made me very curious."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The archaeologist thanks him and leaves, after giving him the name and address of the B &B where he's staying. On his way out, he nearly runs over Mrs Hudson who's heading for the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

"You had a visitor, Doctor Watson?" she asks, placing a cup of tea and some toast in front of John until she had something better to offer.

John nods his thanks, adding sugar to his cuppa. "Mhm. That archaeologist bloke, Jungle Jones."

"Strange," she comments, throwing strips of bacon into the frying pan. "I could have sworn I've seen him before."

"Well, he's American," John offers. " _And_ he apparently gets around a lot. Perhaps you ran into each other while you still lived in Florida."

"Probably," she allows reluctantly. "I can't help feeling that there's more to it, though, I just can't put my finger on it. Oh, I'm such a silly old woman, I keep forgetting things all the time!" she complains.

"Happens to the best of us, Mrs Hudson," John replies gallantly.

"What happens to the best of us?" a deep baritone voice asks, and Mrs Hudson all but jumps, startled.

"Sherlock! You shouldn't sneak up on people like that! It's not decent!"

The self-proclaimed consulting detective actually chuckles at that and kisses her on the cheek. "Who cares about decent when we have a case like this? The game, Mrs Hudson, is afoot!"

"It's all just a game for you," she replies in fond exasperation. "A man has died, in case you've forgotten!"

Sherlock waves off her protests. "That was years ago; this is _now_. So, what happens to the best of us?"

"Forgetting things," John explains, and the detective actually huffs.

"Speak of yourself!"

John gives the man his best bland smile. "That's what I was doing. Are you telling me you never forget a thing?"

"Not by accident," Sherlock declares haughtily. "My mind is much better organised than that; I do delete all unnecessary rubbish regularly, to make place for the truly important things."

"You… _delete_ ," John repeats blandly.

The detective rolls his eyes. "Yes, delete. This," he points at his own head," is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful... _really_ useful. Ordinary people," he nearly spits the word, "fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters."

He obviously believes the rot he's talking about, so John decides there's no use arguing with him. The expression on Mrs Hudson's face tells him that's the right decision.

"Have you learned anything new in the morgue?" he asks instead.

The detective nods and accepts a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson.

"The victim was male, at the time of his death approximately forty years old, based on the shape of his skull and the set of his eyes of South American origin. He was killed by a left-handed person, presumably a man who was considerably taller, as the position of the head wound indicates, roughly three years ago. It's hard to make a more precise estimate about a mummified body without a proper analysis. Dr Bell sent tissue samples to the lab; we'll know more when the results come back."

"I thought you'd insist on your own analysis," John says because Sherlock is definitely the sort of man who would hate to depend on the expertise of others.

"I would," the detective replies, breaking off the corner of a piece of dry toast and eating it absent-mindedly," if anyone but Dr Bell had been the pathologist on duty. He's the only one outside London whose knowledge I trust. I learned everything I know about forensic medicine from him."

The second time the name finally rings a bell with John. "You mean Dr _Joseph_ Bell? What is he doing in Winchester? Isn't he supposed to be teaching somewhere in Scotland?"

"Oh, he's retired two years ago," Sherlock waves, "but found retirement deadly dull – no wonder, a man of such extraordinary intelligence – and steps in gladly for fellow pathologists who cannot work for extended periods of time."

"But where do _you_ know him from?" John asks. "I can hardly imagine you at a medical school in Scotland."

"I didn't know him until yesterday; not personally, that is," Sherlock admits. "But I've read everything he's published in the last thirty years. His methods are logical and scientifically sound; we are lucky to have him on the case."

"Most likely," John agrees. "So, did you tell Sergeant Bradstreet what you've found out?"

The thought clearly hasn't occurred to the consulting detective because he gives John an honestly confused look. "Why should I? I'm sure Dr Bell will inform Athelney Jones about the results."

"'Cause as you've said yourself Athelney Jones is an idiot, while Sergeant Bradstreet is the man with local knowledge," John points out logically.

Or so he thinks. Sherlock doesn't seem to agree.

"I'm not wasting my time on the country police," he declares haughtily.

"Yeah, 'cause you're doing so much of importance right now," John returns. "I understand that you're truly brilliant, but there's no need to be such an arrogant arse to ordinary people, you know."

Sherlock shrugs. "I've earned my arrogance."

"Not here; not yet," John corrects. "You haven't found anything of importance so far; _we have_. And if you want to search the house – _my_ house – thoroughly, you'll have to play nice with Sergeant Bradstreet. It's that simple."

The detective waves dismissively. "Mycroft can make Athelney Jones allow me to search the house any time."

"Perhaps," John allows amiably. "But he can't make me _not_ break your nose, whoever he might be, when you try entering _my_ house without my permission."

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock replies snidely.

"No," John says with a friendly smile. "I really don't think you would."

For a moment there's almost palpable hostility in the air, while Mrs Hudson (clearly worried about Sherlock) keeps looking from one to the other anxiously; then the detective shrugs.

"I thought you wanted this case solved."

"I do," John allows. "But not over the head of Sergeant Bradstreet, whom I've come to respect very much."

That earns him an annoyed huff. "Sentiment!"

"Yes," he says mildly. "I find it occasionally very useful."

The detective mutters something under his breath John is grateful he doesn't understand and storms off, obviously offended. Mrs Hudson shakes her head.

"Don't take it personally, dear," she advises. "He's always like this."

"Which explains why most people won't listen to him, even if he's right; nobody likes being called an idiot all the time," John pauses. "Who is Mycroft, by the way?"

"His older brother," Mrs Hudson explains. "A rather… distinguished gentleman; works for the government in some nebulous capacity. I never quite figured out what he does. A minor position, he says, but…" she shrugs but John understands that said _minor_ position is likely a fairly important one, or the description would be a lot less vague.

"So if I broke Sherlock's nose he'd have me deported to Siberia, right?" he asks, only half-jokingly.

"I wouldn't harm Sherlock if I were you," Mrs Hudson replies seriously. "Whatever else Mycroft might be, he's very protective of his brother. So am I, to give you a fair warning; and I've got a frying pan!"

They both laugh and drop the topic. Later in the afternoon John puts his mobile internet connection to good use and googles both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. The former brings up a dozen or so news articles about complicated murder cases he has helped the police to solve, as well as an obscure website called _The Science of Deduction_ , which is, to be frank, deadly boring.

The other search turns up nothing. Well, _almost_ nothing, save for the official website of the Ministry of Transport, where Mycroft Holmes is listed as a civil servant. And that's it. John is fairly sure that no low-key employee of the Ministry of Transport would have the power to interfere with police investigations or to get Sherlock access to Dr Bell's morgue, of all people. Therefore it must be a mere cover position for something a lot more important.

John decides _not_ to break Sherlock's nose, unless it's absolutely inevitable.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Whatever the true position of Sherlock's shadowy brother might be, he's nothing if not efficient. In the next morning a phone call comes from somewhere high up in the police hierarchy and Detective Inspector Athelney Jones grudgingly agrees to let Sherlock examine the secret chamber _and_ the green Buddha statue hidden there.

The DI refuses to waste his time with such things, though, and assigns Sergeant Bradstreet to the task. It is a solution that everyone welcomes. Including the sergeant himself.

"It isn't an antiquity," Sherlock judges, after having used his magnifying lens for at least twenty minutes on the Buddha. "Late nineteenth century at the earliest. Good, solid workmanship, though. And it is definitely jade, so at least it has some material value, should you want to sell it."

"This Jungle Jones character said it might have a hidden drawer in the bottom," John says. "He thinks it might have been how the Agra treasure was smuggled out of India."

"I seriously doubt that," Sherlock mutters. "The legend of the Agra treasure is just that: a legend. In truth, it's long been found. It just has never been admitted, for political reasons."

"And you know that – how exactly?" Sergeant Bradstreet inquires.

"I liked to poke around in my brother's confidential files when I was much younger," Sherlock admits. "It drove him mad that I could break through his security measures; I enjoyed it immensely. And like all children, for a while I had a vested interest in lost treasures."

"Can you find a hidden drawer, then, assuming there _is_ one?" John asks.

"Of course!" the detective replies, clearly offended. "Help me move it!"

They carry the Buddha into the large room and lay it onto the long table that has been partially cleaned in the previous days. Sherlock whips out his magnifying lens again and examines every square inch of the bottom of the statue. At first he doesn't seem to find anything, but then a triumphant grin lights up his face. He takes out a pocket knife, inserts the tip of the blade into a barely visible crack in the bottom, and a previously hidden small lid springs open.

Behind it, there is a hole of the size of a baby's fist, and in that hole is a small pouch of green leather. It's hard to tell who's more surprised: John, Sergeant Bradstreet or Sherlock himself.

"Not entirely a legend, it seems," John comments.

"It depends on what's in the pouch," Bradstreet says. "Can we risk simply pulling it out of the statue?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It isn't a millennia-old relic, Detective Sergeant; it won't fall to dust from a simple touch. And even if it does – we don't need the _pouch_. What might be interesting is inside."

He reaches inside the statue unceremoniously and yanks out the pouch. It does not crumble to dust; but when Sherlock turns it inside out, six pearls of extraordinary size and beauty roll onto the table. John and the sergeant stare at the found in shocked surprise.

"Are they real pearls or just glass beads?" John finally asks.

To their bewilderment Sherlock picks up one of the pearls and carefully bites down on it. Then he repeats the procedure with the other five, too.

"They are real ones," he declares. "Their surface is slightly rough; that's the proof that they've grown naturally. Only artificial pearls are completely smooth."

"Could these pearls have been part of the Agra treasure?" John asks.

"Possibly," Sherlock shrugs. "They were likely given to Colonel Hamilton as payment for smuggling the treasure out of India."

"Colonel _Hamilton_ ," John repeats. "As far as I know he was the one who had the house built in the first place."

"Including the hidden chamber," Bradstreet assumes.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock says impatiently. "The treasure as a whole has been retrieved a hundred or so years ago. This insignificant little part belonged to the Colonel and now it belongs to you," he looks at John.

"Does it?" John asks doubtfully. "What about the Colonel's descendants?"

"He didn't have any," Bradstreet replies in Sherlock's stead. "He left the house and everything in it to his godson, the late Mr Ponsonby Sr, who sold it to your uncle, the late Mr Garbler, who again left it to you. Legally, your claim is bullet proof."

"Not that it would make your rich or even particularly wealthy," Sherlock adds. "The pearls aren't _that_ valuable. But you should be able to sell them for a price that will cover your rent for a year or two."

"Even in London?"

" _One_ year in London, if you're careful with your expenses," Sherlock corrects himself. "Unless you get a flatshare; then it will last a bit longer."

"Yeah, sure," John puts the idea out of his head immediately because seriously, what flatmate would put up with his moods and night terrors? "But if the Agra treasure is beyond anyone's reach and these pearls can't be compared to the Koh-i-Noor, why would Jungle Jones want to examine the Buddha so badly? You have a theory about that?"

"At least seven," Sherlock says absently; then he corrects himself again. "Well, two _working_ theories, actually. Either the man has bought the legend in its entirety, or he wants to get into the house for a wholly different reason."

"Which would be?"

"I don't know; not _yet_. Not before I've searched the rest of the house," he looks at John. "Would you mind?"

John shakes his head. "Not at all. The house has already produced a few nasty surprises; I'd like to know all that is there to know about it. Besides, we still haven't found out anything about the so-called zombie."

"Actually, there's a better solution," Bradstreet suggests. "Why don't we allow Mr Jungle Jones to do his own search? Not officially, of course; that would only make him suspicious. But we might pretend to slip up just a little bit and _overlook_ him entering the house."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"It would make me feel better if Mrs Hudson could remember where she's seen this Jungle Jones character," Sherlock admits later when they're among themselves again.

He gave Bradstreet an evasive answer to the suggestion regarding the self-proclaimed archaeologist, which surprised John who would have expected the detective to jump at the idea. He says so, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"If Mrs Hudson knows the man, she could only have seen him, however fleetingly, back in Florida, around her late husband," he explains.

Which doesn't explain anything for John and he makes no secret of the fact. "And? Problem?"

"John," Sherlock says seriously. "Frank Hudson was a drug baron of the really nasty sort; which is why Mrs Hudson was so relieved to see him executed. What do you think were the kind of people he surrounded himself with? And our so-called archaeologist specializes in Central American artefacts – don't you find that a bit too much of a coincidence?"

John agrees that _that_ would be unlikely; he wonders, though, if Jungle Jones acts on his own or has been hired by someone else.

"People like him rarely act on their own," Sherlock replies. "And if he is a hired gun, the person who's hired him won't be interested in something as elusive as the Agra treasure. Something that is barely known beyond the borders of Great Britain."

"So you really think he wants access to the house for a different reason?" John tries to clarify and the detective rolls those unusual eyes of his.

"Of course he does, don't be an idiot!"

"Why does he want to examine the Buddha so badly then?" John ignores the casual insult aimed at his mental capacity; he's come to realise that for Sherlock Holmes _everyone_ is in idiot.

Compared with his own genius he's probably even right about that.

"He doesn't," Sherlock replies with unshakable self-confidence. "He just wants to get into the house. I assume that he expects to find another secret room in there; a room that hides the true items of his interest."

"Which would be?"

"I already told you: I don't know. I'll know when I've found them."

"Yeah, of course," John says a little doubtfully. "And how do you intend to do that? Sergeant Bradstreet has searched the house several times already but never found anything."

"Sergeant Bradstreet is not _me_ ," Sherlock declares arrogantly; then he makes a small allowance. "Even though he appears slightly less incompetent than the rest of the police."

"What makes you think so?" Not that John would disagree, but he's surprised that Sherlock, with his obvious disdain towards the rest of mankind, would see the sergeant in such a relatively positive light.

"He listens to the homeless people," Sherlock explains. "He doesn't treat them as idiots. He's the only one who was willing to believe that there might be _something_ behind the zombie legends."

"There is?"

"Of course. The 'zombie', whoever – or whatever – he might be, is the key. When we find him, we'll understand what's really going on in your house."

"And how do you intend to find him?"

"By staying in the house for the night and waiting for him to appear."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight and every night if we have to – until we find him."

"We'll hardly manage that between the two of us," John points out," and Bill Murray will have to return to London tomorrow."

Sherlock shrugs. "I'm sure Miss Bradstreet and her friends will be happy to participate."

"In what way?"

"They can watch the house for us from time to time."

"They've done so before, to no avail," John reminds him. Sherlock shrugs again.

"Well, let them watch from within, then!"

"I will," John promises. "But we should watch out for that roofer guy, too; the one who 'found' my uncle dead. I'd be surprised if he weren't involved in this whole mess somehow."

"Unlikely," Sherlock agrees. "But keeping an eye on him is the easy part."

"Is it?"

"Of course. He's a roofer. You've got a leaking roof. Hire him to fix it!"

"But I don't have the money for that!"

"Perhaps, but he doesn't know that; not for sure," Sherlock explains. "And approaching him that way wouldn't look suspicious."

"I dunno," John says. "Everyone here knows I want to sell the house 'cause I'm broke. And the roofer is in league with Mr Ponsonby in some way, if Sergeant Bradstreet is right."

"He probably is; country policemen may be dumb as bricks, but at least they're well-informed about local gossip," Sherlock points out. "But if people know you're planning to sell the house, they'll find it only logical that you'd want the roof fixed; it would get you a better price that way. And the roofer would be too eager to get into the house to ask questions. Greedy idiots usually are."

"How do you know the man is a greedy idiot? You haven't even met him yet!"

"I don't have to. If he indeed reverted to simple murder instead of finding a better method to get into the house and find what he wanted, he _is_ an idiot. _And_ greedy."

That's certainly true, and so John reluctantly agrees to contact Mr Reno on the next day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anybody wants visuals, Mr Reno is ‘played’ by American actor Erik Estrada.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09**

As much as John is used to the multi-faceted ethnic kaleidoscope of London (or rather that of the Army in recent years), he certainly hasn’t expected to find somebody like Mr Reno in a drowsy little Hampshire village. The countryside is always much slower to catch up with the changes; and while the big cities – or even the larger towns – of the United Kingdom are full of Indian, Chinese or black people (usually in the second or third generation), he hasn’t seen a single person in Nether Wallop so far who hasn't been white.

Or _Caucasian_ , as the Americans would say, although John finds the term ridiculous. He’s seen his fair share of people originating from the Caucasian republics of the long-gone Soviet Union during his service and they certainly had very little in common with European – or British – people in appearance.

Neither has the man whom he finds in the cluttered little office of _Reno Enterprises_. It really _is_ just an office, transformed from the closed porch of a small cottage. The closest thing the man looks like is some stereotypical Columbian drug baron – or how low budget American action films imagine them.

He is not very tall – though still taller than John, not that _that_ would be hard to achieve – but built like a tank, with heavy shoulders, a barrel chest and arms like tree-trunks. The fact that he’s wearing a padded vest and a tight t-shirt known as a _wife beater_ to his camouflage trousers and heavy boots emphasize the almost brutal strength of his compact body.

He must be in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that’s a tad longer than the norm among people of his age, and eyes so dark that John can’t see where the pupils end and the irises begin. Those eyes seem a bit small in a fleshy face that might once have been ruggedly handsome, but now is just flat and deeply lined. He’s wearing a straw hat inside the house – an odd choice in winter, even in such a mild one – the brim keeping his features in shadow.

Upon John’s arrival, he puts his papers aside and comes forth from behind his desk to shake hands. His paws are large and rough, the calluses proving that he earns his living by hard physical labour. To John’s relief, he doesn’t feel the need to crush other people’s bones just because he can. Some blokes are like that.

“Reno Reyes,” he introduces himself, his accent still prominent. “What can I do for you, Mr…”

He sounds like the soldiers of that US Army unit out of New Mexico John served with during his last tour. John also realises with surprise that Reno is actually the man’s _given_ name. He returns the handshake.

“Doctor John Watson. Nice to meet you, Seňor Reyes.”

The man laughs, his teeth large and very white in his dusky brown face.

“Oh, just call me Mr Reno; everybody does. My actual name seems to be beyond the skills of British people to pronounce.”

“Is my pronunciation truly so horrible?” 

John knows it isn’t. He’s actually pretty decent at Spanish, considering he’s learned it from his Army mates in the barracks; but the moment calls for a little bonding – and he doesn’t disappoint.

“Better than most I’ve heard here,” the _bandito_ -lookalike says with a broad grin. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I guess you’ve heard that I’m the actual owner of _The Veteran’s House_ ,” John begins and Reyes nods.

“ _Naturalemente_. That’s been _the_ discussion topic of the village since you showed up for the first time.”

“You know then that the house is in a really bad shape.”

“Sure. It was a half-ruin already when Seňor Garbler moved in. You wanna keep it?”

“God, no!” John says honestly. “London is the place to live for me; nothing else will suit me. But I need money for that.”

“So you wanna sell the house?” It is a logical conclusion – and yet John cannot help thinking that Reyes already knew that.

“Very much so,” he admits. “However, I can’t find a buyer for it in its current state. At least the roof, the plumbing and the electrics should be intact first.”

“There’s that,” Reyes agrees. “But _that_ will cost you, too.”

John sighs. “I know. I hope the sale we are planning will bring me enough money for the basic repairs. That Andy bloke who works for you said you’d offer me a fair price.”

“Mr Reno _always_ gives fair prices,” the man declares proudly.

John has a hard time _not_ to show his doubts. He’s fairly sure that Reyes would _love_ to have access to his house, however, so he might actually offer a fair price _this_ time.

“Why don’t you come over, take a look at the house and calculate the costs?” he offers.

“I can do that,” Reyes agrees; then, after a lengthy pause, he asks carefully. “Is it true that you found the body of that poor Manolo in a hidden chamber in your house?”

John isn’t particularly surprised that the man knows about that. He supposes it is a widely known fact in the entire village by now. He isn’t willing to tell Reyes everything he knows, though – no matter how little _that_ might be.

“We did find a body, yes,” he replies equally carefully, “but it hasn’t been identified yet. The pathologist in Winchester is still waiting for the results, as far as I know. Who is – _was_ – this Manolo anyway?”

“My original plumber,” Reyes explains. “He came with me from Puerto Rico; he was like an _hermano_ to me, a little brother. He’s been missing for what, three years by now, and I’ve got a keen interest to know what happened to him.”

Whether his grief is genuine or well-faked, John cannot decide.

“You should get in touch with the pathologist,” he suggests. “His name is Doctor Joseph Bell. If you can name any physical characteristics of this plumber of yours it might help with the identification.

“He was a scrawny little man,” Reyes says thoughtfully, “with bad teeth and a long, pointy nose. Like a mouse. Oh, and he had a mole on his right cheek, a fairly big one; not that after three years _that_ would help.”

John isn’t going to tell him that the body was practically mummified. If he hasn’t learned about it yet, John doesn’t want to be the source of any further information leaks.

“Who knows,” he says. “Some trace of it might still be found – if the body _is_ that of your plumber, of course.”

Reyes shakes his head in almost convincing sorrow. “Manolo would _never_ leave without a word. _Something_ must have happened to him. Something _bad_.”

John makes sympathetic noises – as a doctor he’s really good at making those – and spares himself the comment that people associating with the likes of Mr Reno Reyes usually come to a bad end. Somehow he doubts that a comment like that would be appreciated. So he pretends to be sympathetic with the man who has probably killed his uncle and they agree that the roofer will come over with his team later in the afternoon to check on the state of the house and decide what will be the most urgent repairs that need to be done.

He is undeniably relieved when he can finally leave the presence of Mr Reno Reyes. He only hopes he won’t be left alone with the man in the house.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John, _of course_ you won’t be left alone,” Sherlock declares, examining one of the numerous wall clocks hanging in the ‘museum’ room on the ground floor. “ _I’ll_ be with you!”

John isn’t sure if that’s supposed to make him feel better – what he’s seen of the behaviour of the eccentric detective isn’t very reassuring – but keeps his opinion to himself. The slight pressure of his illegally kept Sig Sauer, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, on the other hand, _is_ reassuring. He could always count on his trusted pistol to work as it is supposed to work.

They continue sorting out the stuff in the huge room – not that Sherlock is much help, as he’s examining the basement, mostly. Miss Morstan comes over to help after school, as Mrs Hudson is currently taking care of her sister, so she’s not needed in _Dane Cottage_ at the moment. John finds her presence inspiring and soothing at the same time. She isn’t as conventionally pretty as Sarah was, but she’s funny and quick-witted, with a wonderful sense of snark. She makes him laugh. No-one has made him laugh like this ever since he has returned to England.

The two of them go through the smaller items and knick-knacks laying everywhere and put them into separate cardboard boxes. Most of it is fairly worthless, but they do find some jewellery and a few pieces of china that are really beautiful, including an antique tea service with unusual decoration.

“You should keep this one,” Miss Morstan suggests. “It is unique.”

John shakes his head. “It would be wasted on me. My old RAMC mug is good enough for me. We’ll see if Mrs Holding wants it; or I can give it to Clara. She’s got exquisite taste.”

“Clara?” There is something in her voice that John can’t quite interpret. Could it be jealousy? But that wouldn’t make any sense. They’re not seeing each other in _that_ way; and besides, why would anybody be jealous of _Clara_ , of all people?

Then he realises that Miss Morstan hasn’t actually met Clara yet, nor has he told her anything about Clara, so it’s a logical mistake to make.

“Clara is my sister-in-law,” he explains. “Well… soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law anyway. She and Harry are getting a divorce.”

“But I thought you had a _sister_ ,” Miss Morstan says with a frown.

“I do,” he replies, somewhat surprised that she would be confused by that fact. Granted, Nether Wallop is a place permanently stranded in the early twentieth century, but Mary Morstan has grown up in a much more urban environment, hasn’t she?

“They had a civil partnership,” he adds, defensive reflexes kicking in. Harry might be a pain in the arse but she’s still his sister. His _only_ sister. The only family he still has. “It is legal in this country, you know. Even if it doesn’t always work out. Heterosexual marriages don’t always, either.”

“All right, all right, don’t bite my head off,” she says a little tersely. “I was just surprised, is all. This isn’t the first thing one would assume.”

That’s actually true, and he calms down a little. Until she asks the inevitable next question. “So, are you, too, you know…?”

“No,” he snaps, a lot more aggressively than intended. “It’s not the flu, you know. It doesn’t spread via infection.”

She stares at him somewhat bewildered and he realises he’s been rude.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. It’s just… people are _always_ asking these questions, and after a few decades it’s become really annoying.”

She nods, eyeing him warily. “You’ve got quite a temper,” she then says – but not in a manner that would indicate that it’s necessarily a bad thing.

He laughs ruefully. “Yeah, being the shortest soldier in the Army can do that to a man. If one cannot intimidate by size one has to use other means to keep the troops on their toes.”

“By a fearsome temper?” she grins. “And that works?”

“Well, being a crack shot helps,” he admits. “ _Plus_ being a doctor, in charge of the needles. It’s usually the biggest, brawniest guys that start crying for their mums at the sight if a small needle. Gunshot wounds they can take without a flinch but needles…”

They laugh; then John turns serious again. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I had to defend Harry all my life for what she is – as if it were _wrong_ somehow – and then myself against people assuming that being gay is genetically encoded in our family. I tend to overreact,” he extends a hand (after having it wiped on his shirt). “Friends?”

“Friends,” she accepts his hand with a devious glint in her eyes. “However, you’ll have some serious grovelling to do so that I might forget how rude you were.”

She grins again and so does he. “That can be arranged.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Later in the afternoon Reno Reyes makes an appearance, accompanied by Andy and a chubby, good-natured Welshman named Rhys Williams, who turns out to be their plumber. The successor of ‘that poor Manolo’, who may or may not be identical with the mummified corpse found in the hidden chamber behind the cupboard.

John likes the man immediately. Under different circumstances – if he did intend to live in Nether Wallop, that is – he could imagine himself befriending Rhys. He comes from a lower middle-class family himself, but he never minded having mates from the blue collar class. Since he has no intention of moving to the countryside, however, he drops the idea with a minimum of regret.

The team of construction workers goes through the house with the fine-toothed comb and the results are mixed at best. The leaking roof _can_ be fixed, it seems, although it won’t be exactly cheap, given its general shape, Mr Reno explains. Andy declared the electricity problems rather minor… other than the burned-out boiler in the basement, that is, which has to be replaced, being beyond help. John winces when he thinks of the costs.

But the worst are the plumbing problems. Apart from the broken sink in the bathroom ( _and_ the dysfunctional loo), Rhys has found a great number of broken pipes all over the house; and the central heating is in serious need of repairs, too.

“The best thing would be to replace the heating system, together with the boiler,” the Welshman says. “Infrared heating would be the most practical solution in a house of this size.”

John shakes his head, disheartened. “I don’t have that kind of money. Can you patch up the old system for me?”

“I can, but it won’t last long,” Rhys warns. “And a defective heating system would lessen the value of the house considerably.”

John shrugs in defeat. “I’m afraid it can’t be helped. I’m not a rich man, not even a moderately wealthy one. I’ll have to make do with what I can get for the house as it is.”

Rhys nods in understanding. He isn’t a wealthy man himself, and a newly wed one with a wife who has somewhat expensive tastes at that, thus he understands what it means to make do with what little one has all too well.

And with that, the decision is made. Mr Reno makes his calculations, which make John wince again, even though the price is more than fair indeed. It’s obvious that the man is desperate for free access to the house and would even cut his own profits for that chance. Andy and Rhys don’t seem happy with the results – apparently this will have consequences for their pay as well – but are willing to accept them for John’s sake whom they’ve come to genuinely like.

Not that they’d have any other choice, of course. Reyes _is_ their boss, and it isn’t as if they could easily find other employment. Not in Nether Wallop; _or_ in Stockbridge, for that matter. John knows that and feels vaguely guilty, even though the relatively low price could still break him.

Thus they come to an agreement and John signs the contract with a not-so-small amount of anxiety, hoping that the sale will bring in enough cash for the most urgent repairs to be made. What else could he do?

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The sale has been re-scheduled for the next weekend, as Detective Inspector Athelney Jones allowed access then to the crime scene. Not that John would open the hidden chamber for the snooping locals. The last thing he wants is for his house to become a scene for sensationalists and crime scene tourists. Therefore the chamber is closed again, and when the cupboard is moved back to its place, no-one can tell by merely looking where the secret door might be.

During the days till the sale the huge room in the ground floor is tuned into an exhibition-slash antiquities shop. The late Mr Garbler’s collection gets reorganised and displayed attractively all over the cabinets and the long tables that are arranged in a U-form, with its open end facing the door.

The expert from the _National Antiquities Museum_ in London – the one Clara has hired – arrives on Wednesday and spends the entire day in the house, examining and photographing the items that might be of interest for the museum. He is a fairly young man by the name of Andy Galbraith and looks even younger, but he obviously knows his stuff, On the end of the day – after a lengthy discussion over Skype with Ms Acquah, the museum director – he makes an offer for quite a few small prices of Chinese pottery that surprises John and gives him some small reason for hope.

He agrees immediately.

“You might get more for them through an action house,” points out Jungle Jones who’s been drawn in by curiosity. Or so he says.

John shrugs. “Sure, but that would take _time_. I need the money _now_.”

That’s an argument that can’t be easily contradicted, and so the archaeologist lets go.

Another expert – a gallery owner from Clara’s wide circle of acquaintances – arrives on Thursday to take a look at the ungodly number of paintings Mr Garbler has hoarded in his house. Most of it is fairly worthless, only good enough to be sold on the flea market – and even some of those are ready for the rubbish bin, due to careless keeping – but the lady selects a few moderately interesting pieces and offers a moderate price for them.

John is grateful for Sherlock’s presence who’s just come back from Winchester. The consulting detective clearly has some knowledge about art in general and paintings in particular and interferes in the one case where – in his opinion – John might have been cheated.

“We do have the proof now,” he tells John when the gallery owner leaves with six paintings of various ages and sizes in her car. “The dead man in the secret chamber _was_ Manolo Gomez. And he _was_ killed approximately three years ago with a blunt object; most likely the blunt end of an axe blade.”

The last part isn’t really news for John; he’s assumed that much when examined the body himself, but it’s nice to be reassured by an authority of Dr Joseph Bell’s calibre. By _the_ expert.

“So he must have been one of the guys Doc saw entering the house but never leaving,” he says thoughtfully. “Any ideas who might have killed him?”

“The so-called zombie is the most obvious suspect,” Sherlock replies. “Has he been seen again?”

John shakes his head. Justin, Kate, Billy the pizza boy and even Andy have been camping out in the house at night during Sherlock’s absence – Doc and Leon adamantly refused to enter it after sunset – but no sign of the zombie has been found.

Sherlock is mildly frustrated by the news.

“That doesn’t make any sense! He _must_ be hiding in the house somewhere! There isn’t any other solution; he’s apparently too disfigured to live somewhere else in the village unnoticed.”

John tends to agree. He’s come to the understanding that no stranger could _possibly_ hide in plain sight in a place like Nether Wallop. Which is one of the reasons why he wants to return to London as soon as possible.

“Do you think there might be another hidden chamber in the house?” he asks. 

Sergeant Bradstreet had spoken about that possibility but so far they haven’t found it, despite Sherlock’s ongoing efforts.

Sherlock nods. “There has to be! The problem is, I’ve gone through the house with a magnifying lens and found nothing. It has to be part of the original design, which is why there aren’t any revealing signs.”

“Does this mean we may find more dead bodies yet?” John isn’t happy about that possibility; Sherlock on the other hand, is delighted.

“Obviously! The ‘zombie' itself may be dead by now, which would be a possible explanation for his absence.”

“Great,” John comments sarcastically. “And how are you planning to find either him or the hypothetical dead bodies?”

“By observation,” Sherlock declares and John gives him a bewildered look.

“Sorry, what?”

“ _Somebody_ must know about the hidden chamber,” Sherlock explains with an eye-roll that clearly expresses his low opinion about John’s mental abilities. “Somebody who is looking for that which has been originally hidden there – and _that_ certainly _wasn’t_ the Agra treasure. No; I’m almost certain that whatever it is, it came from the States. Look at all those strangers showing up in Nether Wallop in recent years? Reyes, his man Gomez, Jungle Jones… just how likely is it, do you think, for so many Americans moving into the same insignificant little English village? One that has been all but abandoned by its original inhabitants? The universe is seldom so lazy.”

“So you think they are all looking for the same thing?”

“Obviously. Jungle Jones’s story about the Agra treasure was clearly a distraction; a red herring, if you want to put it that way.”

“But _what_ are they looking for?” John wonders.

“We’ll know it when we find it… _or_ the ‘zombie’,” Sherlock answers simply. “Let’s hope that when the construction workers go to work we’ll find something, too.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On Saturday the big sale of _The Veteran’s House_ opens its gates and John and his helpers do their best to draw attention to it. Kate and Justin have put the event up to their favourite social media hangouts, luring a surprising number of people from Stockbridge and even from Winchester to Nether Wallop; people that are interested in old things and hope to purchase some nice pieces for a good price.

Mrs Hudson – with the assistance of her sister – has baked enough biscuits and oatcakes and scones to feed an army. Literally. Miss Morstan has organised her older students (mostly the girl guides) to fetch the baked goods from Mrs Holding’s house, and now they are selling them together in front of the house.

There is even some entertainment, provided by Jungle Jones, who has declared himself willing to do some “Indy” tricks with his trusted whip for the amusement of the visitors and is as good as his word.

John has to admit that the man sells his Indiana Jones image very well. He wields the whip with considerable skill; so much so that he could have put a young Harrison Ford to shame. John briefly wonders if this is part of Jones’s cover persona or a skill he actually uses in his true occupation; because it’s getting increasingly dubious if a real archaeologist named Indiana Jones – presumably named after the film character – ever existed.

But the sale is an unexpected hit and John temporarily forgets about the man because he’s too busy selling wall clocks, pretty but not very valuable paintings, pottery, the fake jewellery and other knick-knacks his late uncle has collected in the mistaken belief that they would be true antiquities. _Those_ he has already sold to the experts sent to him by Clara.

He regrets that Clara hasn’t come but understands her reasons. Bill Murray and his wife, on the other hand, _have_ come, and so have some of the rugby lads (John’s blog proving to be useful for _something_ for a change), so John isn’t entirely without personal friends here, which is a relief. As fond as he’s grown of the good people of Nether Wallop, they aren’t _his_ people. Not yet, and it’s doubtful that they’ll ever be. He doesn’t intend to stay here long enough for _that_ to happen, although he wouldn’t mind staying in touch with some of them.

Especially with Miss Morstan.

In any case, the sale is in full swing. By noontime the biscuits and scones are gone and Billy, the pizza boy runs off with Justin’s car to Stockbridge to fetch some more food as well as canned drinks. People clearly intend to stay and have a good time, and it shows. The long tables in the large ‘museum’ room have lots of empty places; the walls are becoming bare in ever-growing patches. 

John’s wallet, on the other hand, has filled up nicely. He is pleasantly surprised that people would willingly spend so much money on what he sees as useless trash, but their loss is his gain, right?

He begins to feel good about himself and about the whole situation – until he catches a glance at Mrs Hudson behind her empty biscuit stall, that is. She is chalk white and literally shaking like a leaf. John becomes worried – he’s come to like the resolute old lady a lot – and goes over to her to offer his help. 

From that vantage point he can see what Mrs Hudson is looking at. It is the repeat performance of Jungle Jones..

“Is something wrong, Mrs Hudson?” John asks with genuine concern because he’s never seen her so shocked, and a deeply emotional shock could be dangerous at her age.

“I know now who that man is,” she replied in a whisper; her lips are bloodless under the generously applied lipstick. “That is ‘Killer’ Evans!”

When John, also frankly shocked by that piece of news, looks out to find Jones, the false archaeologist is gone as if he’d never been there.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the story has been inspired by the ACD short story “The Three Garridebs”. Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are taken from the unaired “Sherlock” pilot, though.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10**

“And who, pray tell, is ‘Killer” Evans?” John asks later in the afternoon. The sale has run its cycle and is closed. Sherlock, who – naturally – kept out of the noisy crowd, is sitting with them and Mrs Hudson in Mrs Holding’s drawing room, while Miss Morstan is entertaining their landlady and Mrs Murray somewhere in the village.

“A man of impressive reputation – if you’re impressed by a criminal record longer than your arm,” the consulting detective replies grimly. “I knew he had to have one, seeing as he used to work for Mrs Hudson’s husband, and mailed his photo to New Scotland Yard, to Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he draws an envelope from his pocket. “Here, I printed out the information for you while in Winchester.”

John opens the envelope and unfolds the sheets of paper within.

“James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias ‘Killer’ Evans?” he reads with a frown.

Sherlock nods. “He’s a hired gun; a professional killer. Aged forty-four, native of Chicago. Known to have shot three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political influence, supposedly, although I suspect that he’s freelancing for the CIA and that’s why they let him escape.”

“But what is he doing _here_?” Bill Murray asks. “You said the thing with the Agra treasure was a red herring…”

“Precisely,” Sherlock says. “But Evans’s last known job before leaving the States some six years ago was to hunt down Rodger Prescott, the infamous forger who was thought to have moved from Chicago to Florida roughly ten years previously.”

“Did he find the man?” John doesn’t doubt that he did. Jungle Jones, or whatever his name might be, strikes him as one who never leaves a job unfinished.

“Apparently, yes. But something has gone wrong. The official version is that the house in which Prescott was hiding burned down and the man himself was killed in the fire, with his forging equipment completely destroyed.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Bill states.

“Human bodies don’t burn to ashes by a simple house fire,” Sherlock replies. “Machines perhaps; they’re made mainly of plastic nowadays. But even so, forensics should have found at least _some_ molten residue; and definitely some charred human remains.”

“They have not?”

“None at all.”

“Perhaps they did sloppy work?” Mrs Hudson, now with some more colour in her face, suggests. “You keep telling me how incompetent the police are.”

Sherlock waves off her suggestion. “I was talking of Lestrade’s band of idiots. The CSI in the States are much better trained and equipped.”

“So you believe this Prescott character has escaped, together with his stuff, before ‘Killer’ Evans burned down the house?” Bill tries to clarify; but Sherlock shakes his head.

“I don’t believe he’d taken his equipment to Florida at all. I believe he sent it to England, to an old acquaintance well in advance when the FBI came too close for his comfort. Then he went to Florida with his generous supply of forged money to sit out the crisis and move on to England once he felt it would be safe enough. If you remember, Mrs Hudson, a considerable amount of false money was in circulation in Florida six or seven years ago.”

“True,” she agrees. “Frank – that was my husband –, “ she adds for John and Bill’s sake, “was very angry about it.”

“Angry enough to hire ‘Killer’ Evans?” Sherlock asks and she shrugs.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. All I know is that Evans _did_ work for Frank at that time; but I don’t know what kind of job he was hired for. Well… I can imagine what _kind_ of job it was; I just don’t know exactly _what_ it was.”

“I think that’s fairly obvious,” Sherlock says dismissively. “He was after Prescott; and I believe he burned down the house in which Prescott was trapped – or so Evans thought. His job was most likely to get rid of Prescott; finding Prescott’s equipment would have been just an additional bonus.”

“Yeah, but _did_ he truly get rid of Prescott?” John asks slowly.

That earns him an irritated look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Prescott might have escaped he fire, although probably horribly burned,” John explains. “Such wounds need time to heal: months, sometimes even years; and extensive reconstructive surgery. Without that, the victim remains disfigured beyond recognition. Which leads us directly…”

“To our so-called zombie who first appeared in your house four years ago and was described by our homeless friends as somebody who may well have been the victim of savage burns! “Sherlock claps his hands in delight. “Oh, brilliant! John, you apparently aren’t the complete idiot I thought you would be!”

“Well… thanks, I think,” John replies dryly, although he does know that from Sherlock Holmes this was a compliment indeed. “So, what’s the next link?”

“Well, we must go tonight and look for that,” Sherlock decides. “I’ve already told the young people that _we_ will keep watch tonight – that is, if you’re with me, doctor?” he looks at John.

“Oh, God, yes!” John replies with feeling. He hasn’t felt so alive for a very long time. Not since his return. Sherlock seems to have that effect on him, and he’s secretly grateful for that.

The detective nods. “Good. If our Wild West friend tries to live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him, though; so make sure you’ll have that illegally kept pistol on your person tonight.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John says blandly, studiously ignoring Bill’s badly concealed snort of laughter.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, please don’t insult my intelligence! I’m not one of the unobservant fools you’re surrounded by.”

“I still don’t know what you’re hinting at,” John replies, completely straight-faced. “But if I _had_ an illegal weapon in my possession, which I _absolutely_ don’t, I wouldn’t come to our little man-hunt unarmed tonight.”

Sherlock gives him a long, unnerving look, and then he nods. “Good enough. I’ll give you another hour of rest; then we’ll meet at the garden shed.”

“What about Doc and Leon? Won’t we endanger them with our action?”

“I sent them to Stockbridge with some money to buy themselves a decent dinner and stay out of the way tonight,” Sherlock tells him.

“You really think this Evans bloke or what’s his name will come to John’s house tonight?” Bill asks.

Sherlock nods. “Oh, yes. He probably knows that Mrs Hudson has recognised him, so he’s got to act at once. He cannot afford to wait, in case we alert the police.”

“You won’t?” Bill clearly finds that a stupid idea.

Sherlock grins like a shark. “Oh, I will – _after_ we got him!”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Bill declares, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“No. The fewer people are involved the better. But I’d ask you a favour if I may.”

Bill gives him a measuring look. “That depends on the favour.”

“Stay here, in John’s room tonight and keep an eye on Mrs Hudson. We don’t know if Evans has any allies in Nether Wallop; she might be in danger,” Sherlock says.

“I can do that,” Bill agrees – and that’s that. Mrs Hudson seems supremely content with her personal bodyguard, and as Bill’s wife is going to spend the evening in Winchester with Miss Morstan – they have theatre tickets for a play Bill definitely won’t be interested in – there is no need to get her involved. _Or_ to tell her why her husband chose to stay in John’s room tonight.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mrs Murray and Miss Morstan leave for Winchester at half past four. It’s just five o’clock when John and Sherlock reach _The Veteran’s House_ , but the shadows are falling already. The people who helped cleaning up after the sale are all gone; since the front door shuts with a spring lock now – the first and so far only improvement John has done was having the locks changed – there was no need to wait for them to finish.

John fishes the new key from his pocket and opens the door; now he and Sherlock are alone in the lower floor of the house.

“Now what?” he asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “Now we wait.”

“You sure he’ll come?”

“Absolutely. He believes this would be his only chance to get what he wants – and he’s right. Because tomorrow Reno Reyes and his workers will start the repairs and they _might_ find it – unless Evans gets it tonight.”

“So you believe Reyes and Evans are after the same thing?” Sherlock nods. “Which would be – what exactly?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” Sherlock admits. “I do have a theory, of course; a fairly plausible at that, I think, but it’s just that: a theory. I need proof. And I’m quite certain that tonight we _will_ find that proof.”

“In which case we’d night a good hiding place,” John suggests,” lest we warn our bird before it would fly into the trap.”

Sherlock makes a rapid examination of the premises; not that he hadn’t seen them before, but never with the intent to hide in there.

“See that cupboard in the corner?” he then says. “The one that stands out a little from the wall? There’s just enough room behind it for us to crouch down, out of sight.”

John eyes the claustrophobic little place doubtfully, thinks of his bad leg and suppresses a sigh. He’ll just have to man it up if he wants to learn the guilty secret of his own house. They make themselves as comfortable behind the cupboard as possible under the circumstances and began their vigil.

John has the uncomfortable feeling that it’s going to be a long one.

To his relief, he soon proves to be wrong in his estimate. They’ve barely been there for fifteen minutes when they hear the outer door open and close. Then comes the sharp, metallic snap of a key, and in the next moment they can make out the dark outlines of a man enter the room. By his size and shape John is quite certain that it _is_ Jungle Jones… or ‘Killer’ Evans... or whatever his true name might be.

The man closes the door softly behind him, takes a sharp glance around him to see that all is safe and walks up to the small cupboard in the corner dangerously near John and Sherlock’s hiding place with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushes the cupboard to one side, tears up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolls it completely back and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he kneels down and starts working furiously on the floor. 

From their hiding place John and Sherlock soon can hear the sound of sliding boards, and an instant later a square opens in the planks. Jones… Evans… whatever switches on a small torch and vanishes from their view.

Sherlock touches John’s wrist. 

“Clearly, our moment has come,” he mouths soundlessly, and John nods his understanding.

Together they tiptoe across the room to the open trap-door. Carefully though they move, the old floor creaks under our feet, and the head of the American suddenly emerges from the open space. His genially handsome face turns upon them with a glare of baffled rage; this is the very first time John sees his charming mask fall, and he understands that they’re dealing with a dangerous and merciless predator. 

He is glad to feel his gun pressing into his flesh, stuck in the waistband of his trousers – but somehow he’s got the uncomfortable feeling that Jones – _Evans_ – is aware of him being armed. The manner in which the man reacts to their presence, with his rage gradually softening into one of his thousand megawatt grins that never quite seem to reach his icy blue eyes, only underlines that feeling.

“Well, well!” Evans says coolly as he scrambles to the surface. “I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and tried to play me for the idiot you thought me to be. That’s the problem with you, self-proclaimed geniuses, you see: you eventually come to believe your own PR. Thinking everyone _but_ you is stupid, ain’t you?”

“People usually _are_ ,” Sherlock replies, completely unfazed by the man’s obvious readiness to kill them both. 

“Perhaps,” Evans allows amiably, which is more unsettling than if he were raging about; it gives them a glimpse of madness and of the total lack of conscience. “But that great brain of yours won’t be of any use with a bullet right in the middle of it, would it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he whisks out a revolver from his shoulder holster and fires two quick shots at Sherlock, aiming for his head. He is a trained killer; under normal circumstances the world’s only consulting detective would be stone dead by now.

If he hadn’t John Watson on his side, that is.

Because John Watson might be just a crippled ex-Army-doctor _now_ , but less than a year ago he used to be _Captain_ Watson, the best marksman of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. One that, fortunately, has trained with his _right_ hand on the shooting range in all his years in the Army. With his non-dominant hand, that was spared when he got his crippling injury.

And he still has the reflexes of an excellent marksman. Reflexes that are faster even than those of the professional killer. Not by much, granted, but that tiny little advantage makes all the difference.

John manages to draw his gun just a second or two faster than Evans draws his. _And_ his trigger finger is quicker, too. The two shots aimed at Sherlock’s head go askew, one of them grazing his temple almost harmlessly; but Evans himself falls backwards with a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead, that cold grin frozen grotesquely on his face.

John checks Sherlock’s wound quickly, reassuring himself that it’s quite superficial; then he leans over Evans, feels his neck for a pulse – and finds none.

“He’s dead, Jim,” he says in a sudden moment of insanity and can’t suppress a fairly hysterical giggle. Sherlock stars at him blandly, clearly not getting the joke and how is it possible to be ignorant towards such a Star Trek classic? Granted, it is an _American_ classic but still…

John briefly wonders whether Sherlock wouldn’t get a TARDIS joke, either.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock demands, apparently concerned that John has lost his mind and he’s now trapped in here, injured, in the company of a dead killer and an armed madman.

John looks at him in surprise. “Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You have just killed a man,” Sherlock points out and John can’t help but shake his head slightly. For all that great brain of his, Sherlock Holmes so very obviously has no idea what it means having spent years in the front line.

“I’ve seen men die before,” he says softly, thoughtfully. “And good men, friends of mine. Thought I’d never sleep again,” he meets Sherlock’s eyes, his face calm. “I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

For a moment Sherlock stares him in almost-shock; he’s probably used to very different reactions from people who’ve just shot somebody dead, even from the police. But again, being a police officer isn’t the same thing as having served in various war zones for a decade and a half, either.

After a moment Sherlock nods decisively. “All right. Give me your gun!”

“What for?” John asks with a frown.

“We’ll say that _I shot_ Evans in self-defence,” Sherlock casually fires a shot into the wall, in the vague height where Evans’s head might have been before John shot him. “So, that would provide the police with the power burns they’ll need. Evidence and all that. They _love_ having solid evidence.”

“I still don’t see the point,” John says. “What difference would it make which one of us shot him? He _had_ tried to kill you!”

“Yes, and the police _will_ find his bullets in the wall; and it will make forensics _very_ happy,” Sherlock replies dismissively. “I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

“What about you? Aren’t you taking the same risks?”

“Not really,” Sherlock whips out his phone and starts texting furiously. “Mycroft can take care of the clean-up for me.”

“Your brother?” John remembers a casual remark from not so long ago. “He can do that?”

“Mycroft can do _anything_ he wants,” Sherlock drops his phone onto the central table. “I think we better alarm Detective Sergeant Bradstreet… if the neighbours haven’t done so already.”

He walks out, his temple still bleeding a little. John can’t resist the temptation to take a look at the text message he’s just fired off. It says:

_Killer Evans is dead. Need a clean-up team in NW, ASAP. SH._

John shakes his head in amusement and jogs after the madman. He still has to dress that wound, after all.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Sergeant Bradstreet arrives in no time and together the three of them go to look down into the small cellar that has been disclosed by the secret flap. Sherlock has found the light switch, and in the vague yellow light of a single light bulb their eyes fall upon a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles, and – neatly arranged upon a small table – a number of neat little bundles.

“A printing press – a counterfeiter’s outfit,” the sergeant realises.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, with the smug expression of someone who’s figured it out already. “The greatest counterfeiter England ever saw. That’s Rodger Prescott’s machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of Prescott’s notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. No man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England; he could have flooded London with them and nobody would be the wiser. Well… if I say nobody…” he adds with a tight little smile.

“That would have been a disaster,” Bradstreet agrees. “Why hasn’t he, though; and where is he now?”

“I imagine he knew he was being hunted; and that not just by one party,” Sherlock shrugs; then he corrects himself. “Or rather his equipment was, since he was believed to be dead. Besides, he couldn’t get into the house either, as long as Mr Garbler lived in there. Not until Reno Reyes did him the favour of killing the old man.”

“But I’ve sealed the house after Mr Garbler’s death,” Bradstreet protests. “How did he get in in the first place?”

“He must have had a detailed map of the house,” Sherlock explains. “I believe he was an old acquaintance of Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby and sent his equipment to his business friend for safe-keeping when the waters began to heat up around him.”

“But why would Mr Ponsonby senior hide these things in a house that he sold to an uninvolved third party?” John asks.

“Exactly because they _were_ uninvolved,” Sherlock replies. “Who would suspect a counterfeiter’s outfit to be hidden in the house of such a harmless old fool? I’m quite certain that Prescott could have got his stuff without Mr Garbler’s knowledge, though.”

“Had he not been caught in that fire, back in the States,” John adds, starting to understand the whole idea. “Since he couldn’t show himself openly, he needed a hiding place, and in the empty house he could work undisturbed – and thus the legend of the zombie in _The Veteran’s House_ was born.”

“Not entirely undisturbed,” Sherlock corrects. “Clearly, the people for whom he used to work have figured out the connection to Mr Ponsonby Senior and suspected that either he or his equipment would be hidden here, in Nether Wallop. And so the agents of the various parties followed the trail, in the hope of finding either Prescott or his stuff – or both.”

“And Mr Reno and his Manolo represented one of those parties?” John isn’t particularly surprise. Sherlock nods.

“Oh, yes. I’ve checked his background through one of my contacts in the States: Reno Reyes used to work for _La Hermandad_ , one of the rather minor drug-dealing gangs in Florida, although the police could never actually _prove_ his involvement in any of their major crimes. It’s believed that he and his cousin Manolo were usually sent out to beat up people the gang wanted to intimidate. They were muscle, nothing else; and I presume the same was expected from them here.”

“Only that Prescott probably killed Manolo with an axe in self-defence,” John guesses. “There were enough tools lying around for him to grab one and break Manolo’s head.”

“And hid the body in the secret chamber,” Bradstreet continues. “But that still doesn’t tell us where _he_ is.”

“Somewhere around here,” Sherlock says without hesitation. “We’ve already found two hidden rooms joining the main one. There could be more.”

“Yeah, but how are we supposed to find them?” John asks. “The first one we found by accident; the other one by watching Evans. There is no way to know where and what to look for.”

“Not to mention that Detective Inspector Athelney Jones will probably seal the entire house off as a crime scene,” Bradstreet adds with an unhappy expression.

“Hardly,” Sherlock replies with a snort, listening to the noise of a rapidly approaching car – make that _several_ cars – outside the house. “I think the cavalry has just arrived.”

Bradstreet steps to one of the windows and sees three nondescript black cars – complete with tinted windows – pull up to the kerb. Half a dozen men, looking unnervingly identical in their black suits and clearly wearing shoulder holsters under their jackets, get out of the cars and head towards the front door. They are followed by a stunningly beautiful young woman in a charcoal grey trouser suit who’s texting away furiously on her BlackBerry phone.

“Very James Bond,” Bradstreet comments dryly. “What is this, the Secret Service?”

“Close enough,” Sherlock, the graze on his temple still bleeding a little through the makeshift dressing John has put on it, opens the door for them and greets the young woman with an icy nod. “Anthea.”

She ignores him and hands Bradstreet a file instead. “Orders from higher-up, Detective Sergeant. We’re taking over the case.”

Bradstreet is not the least impressed. “Really? Who the hell _are_ you?”

“That is confidential,” she replies and ignores him, too, afterwards.

Bradstreet looks into the file and grimaces. The orders are valid, so he has no other choice but leave the crime scene to the spooks… or whatever else they might be.

In the meantime the Men in Black have already spirited away the body of ‘Killer’ Evans and odd-looking equipment has been wheeled into the room. The latter has some vague resemblance to an MR-machine, John finds, and serves a similar purpose, one of the Men in Black deigns to explain: it seeks for empty spaces in the walls with the help of magnetic resonance.

To be perfectly honest, John doesn’t truly believe that to be possible at all, but he's proved wrong with his scepticism. While having examined the walls and the floor of the large room inch by inch, the machine beeps _four_ times. They find two other hidden chambers (that don’t really hide anything), another trap door to the basement, and a narrow little door, cleverly covered by the wallpaper, that opens to a narrow spiral staircase, which leads them to a tiny room in the attic. A room which cannot be entered from any other rooms up there.

And in that room, lying on a hard and narrow pallet, they find the late Rodger Prescott, the involuntary source of Nether Wallop’s zombie legends. He is wiry, almost emaciated, horribly disfigured due to the burns suffered when ‘Killer’ Evans burned down his hiding place back in Florida – and quite dead.

"Killed?” Sherlock asks, but John shakes his head.

“Not impossible, of course, but I don’t think so. My guess would be chronic malnourishment leading to slow starvation, but we won’t know it for sure before the autopsy.”

“He _starved_?” Bradstreet repeats, unbelieving. He might be out of the actual case-work, but he refused to leave which, in John’s opinion, is fully justified. “How is that possible?”

“He couldn’t leave his foxhole too often since the house has been watched so closely,” John points out. “And ordering take-out wasn’t really a choice in his situation, either.”

“That is possibly true,” the sergeant allows. “Still, I’ll send the body to Winchester and have it obducted, just in case.”

“ _We_ will be taking care of the necessities,” the pretty lady in charge of the Men in Black corrects coolly. “We’ll take advantage of the fact that Doctor Joseph Bell is currently working there; if there was any foul play, he _will_ find the evidence for that.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Bradstreet pulls a face but doesn’t say anything. Clearly, he’s made some experience with the spooks in the past. He waits until they clear the premises and only then does he turn to John.

“Doctor Watson, whatever Mr Holmes may think, I’m _not_ an idiot. I know it was _you_ who pulled the trigger. What I’d like to know is _why_.”

“He fired at Sherlock; twice,” John replies simply. “What we’ve told you was the truth – save for the fact that _I fired_.”

“Not that you’d be able to prove it,” Sherlock adds haughtily.

“I don’t intend to try,” Bradstreet says. “Whichever of you shot him, did mankind a favour; and I’m sure it will be a glad day at the Yard when they learn that Prescott’s outfit was discovered. A counterfeiter of his format stands in a class by himself as a public danger. Now if we only could get rid of Reyes as well, life in this village would return to normal again.”

At this moment Sherlock’s phone makes a ping sound, announcing an incoming text message. He glances at it – and smiles thinly.

“Well, Detective Sergeant, your wish has just become reality. Reno Reyes was seen to board the train in Winchester, heading for London.”

“Dammit!” Bradstreet jumps to his feet. “That was _not_ what I meant. We can’t allow him to leave the country; we’ll never lay hand on him again!”

“Rest assured, Sergeant, he won’t be allowed to leave the country,” Sherlock replies calmly. “He’s not alone on that train; and if he had something to do with Mr Garbler’s death, I _will_ find the proof.”

“I’m sure you will,” John says tiredly. “I’m just no longer sure that I _want_ to know. I mean, yeah, Mr Garbler _was_ my uncle, but I didn’t really know him – and all I want is to be done here and return to London.”

“That may take some time yet,” Bradstreet warns. “Reyes might be gone, but you’ve signed a contract with his firm; a legally binding contract. His workmen are counting on that job, so you’ll have to pay them, even if you decide to break the contract. Besides, you won’t be able to sell the house in its current state anyway, so the best solution would be to go with it.”

“Great, just great!” John grimaces unhappily; rural life, not his first choice to begin with, has become a great deal less appealing during his stay in Nether Wallop. “Now I’m trapped here for God only knows how long!”

“I believe I can help you with that, Doctor Watson.”

They all but jump at the unexpected voice coming from the small antechamber. None of them has heard Justin Parker-Smythe enter the house, so wrapped up they were in their discussion.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Bradstreet asks.

“I had some official business in Andover that took longer than expected,” and indeed, Justin is wearing a charcoal grey, pinstriped three-piece suit instead of his casual jeans and hoodies, clearly signalling that he’s just come from work. “I saw the ominous black cars and the Men in Black swarm the house and become curious. So, what happened here?”

“We found the zombie – dead – and Jungle Jones, who was actually a professional killer from the States and tried to shoot Sherlock. Sherlock’s brother dispatched MI5 or some other top secret agency to deal with the aftermath and Mr Reno is on the run,” John summarises the events for him.

Justin is impressed and envious at once.

“Just my luck!” he mutters angrily. “I leave Nether Wallop for a couple of hours, and the only interesting thing in _decades_ must happen during my absence. It’s not fair!”

“Be glad you weren’t here,” John replies grimly. “I could have done without all the dead bodies. Trust me; it isn’t the fun bad action films try to make us believe. And getting killed for a bunch of false money is the stupidest thing a man could possibly do.”

“Perhaps,” Justin allows reluctantly. “I still would like to learn everything about this case. We’ve all been waiting long enough to figure out the secret of _The Veteran’s House_.”

“I’m sure Sherlock will be all too happy to explain you how he succeeded where everyone before him had failed,” John says dryly because he’s come to know well enough the eccentric detective by now to realise how much Sherlock loves to show off. “Tell me, though, how do you intend to help me with the bloody house?”

“I intend to buy it,” Justin replies simply, and everyone present stares at him in shocked surprise.

“You must have gone soft in the head,” John finally says. “The place is a disaster.”

“Besides, you don’t have that kind of money,” Bradstreet adds, because everyone in Nether Wallop knows everything about any given inhabitant of the village.

Sherlock, however, looks the young man up and down and that great brain of his almost visibly kicks in high gear.

“Oh, I don’t think that would be true, Sergeant; not any longer. Our young Mr Parker-Smythe had official business in Andover, where the senior branch of his firm is seated. Official business; he can afford to buy a house _now_ , which he wouldn’t have been able to do _before_ , ergo: inheritance. You were there to witness the opening of a will, weren’t you?”

Justin nods. “Sort of. The execution of my maternal grandfather’s will, actually. I inherited a neat sum of money from him but could not tap into my funds before the age of twenty-six. Which I reached last week; we were just too busy to throw a party.”

“That explains the _means_ ,” John says. “But why would you want the _house_? You saw the shape of it; calling it a ruin would be a compliment.”

“But it’s interesting, with all its secrets and its history; and it is large enough for a family with children,” Justin replies, looking at Bradstreet defiantly. “And Kate happens to agree with me.”


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue are taken from the unaired “Sherlock” pilot. Brownie points for those who catch the Babylon 5 reference.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
** Chapter 11 – Epilogue  
  
"That was definitely the oddest proposal I’ve ever heard,” John declares two days later in Mrs Holding’s drawing room. “And in the absence of the bride at that!”

“Justin knew he had to ask Sergeant Bradstreet first or there would be no marriage at all,” Miss Morstan laughs. They’re having tea with Mrs Hudson and a hideously bored Sherlock who makes no secret of how tedious he finds the whole conversation – without actually saying a word.

“So, are you actually selling the boy the house?” Bill Murray inquires. He and the Missus have postponed their departure, planning to take John back to London with them.

“I already have, sort of,” John explains in obvious relief. “All we have to do is to sign the documents. It will be payment by instalments, for sure; he’s not _that_ rich. But the instalments will hopefully cover my rent until I’ve found another job in London. So, with that and my Army pension I ought to be able to manage on my own.”

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks suddenly, out of the blue.

John blinks in surprise. “Sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Sherlock replies. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?”

“Not particularly, no,” John answers honestly. Classical music isn’t exactly his thing, but he assumes it would be lots better than the trains going by the house every twenty minutes or so. “But why…?”

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” Sherlock interrupts and John blinks again.

“Who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did,” Sherlock points out the obvious. “I rent a nice little place from Mrs Hudson in central London. Together we could afford it, without me having to ask my brother who’s still controlling my funds.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Mrs Hudson enthuses. “I’ll give you a special rate, too, Doctor Watson! Sherlock needs somebody to look after him; he always forgets to take proper care of himself.”

“I don’t need a minder, no matter what my ridiculous brother believes!” Sherlock declares, clearly annoyed. “But he would _perhaps_ be willing to release my funds if I had a trustworthy flatmate; and having a live-in doctor with me could be useful for the Work.”

The capital is obvious by the way he emphasises the word and John finds that oddly endearing. Besides, this is the best offer he had since coming back to England.

“I can’t really see how I could be of any help for the world’s only consulting detective,” he says though, because he is an honest soul. “I’m not a genius like you. I’m just – me. An invalided-out ex-Army-doctor with a damaged shoulder and a psychosomatic limp.”

“But you are a doctor,” Sherlock says. “In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

“Yes,” John says a little warily.

Sherlock give shim a sidelong glance. “Any good?”

John straightens in his seat, professional pride breaking to the surface. “ _Very_ good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then,” Sherlock muses. “Violent deaths…”

“Well, yes,” John still isn’t quite certain what the madman is up to.

“Bit of trouble too, I bet,” Sherlock speculates.

“Of course, yes,” John replies quietly, memories of war resurfacing unasked-for. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock’s strange eyes began to twinkle, although his angular face remains impassionate. “Want to see some more?”

And all of a sudden John can feel the surge of adrenaline rush through his entire body – a feeling he thought lost forever after leaving the Army.

“Oh, _God_ , yes!” he answers with feeling.

“Good,” Sherlock gives him a tight smile. “I need an assistant at the crime scenes, but the idiots of forensics at the Yard won’t work with me.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to help out,” John replies, and he means it. “But I’ll have to stay here for a couple of days yet, until the house is properly sold and I can pack up a few things I’d like to keep from my uncle’s stuff.”

Which isn’t much, truly. John Watson is a man of simple tastes who travels lightly. But there’s a beautiful old wall clock that hasn’t found a buyer and is too valuable to be left behind; a few picture frames Harry might like for the family photos; and, of course, the tea service he wants to gift to Clara. He’s already given some of the remaining china to Mrs Holding and Miss Morstan, and there are some scientific books and journals he’d like to keep for himself.

Sherlock reluctantly accepts his decision – he is clearly a man used to get what he wants and to get it _now_.

“I won’t stay here to wait for you, though,” he announces. “The case is solved – it was barely a six, mind you – and there’s nothing I can do in a dull place like this. You can move in as soon as you’re back in London. The address is 221B Baker Street; you can recognise the house from _Speedy’s Café_ on the ground floor,” he stands and picks up his coat and his scarf, ready to leave. “Laters!”

And with that, he’s gone. Mrs Hudson shakes her head in fond exasperation.

“That boy! Always dashing about! I hope you’ll be a calming influence on him Doctor Watson; he certainly needs one.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That’s something they all agree with and the conversation turns back to the revealed mystery of John’s house. Some time later Sergeant Bradstreet joins them, too, having finished his duty shift at the police station – and he has news.

“I’ve just got a call from New Scotland Yard,” he tells them, gratefully accepting a cup of tea. “Reno Reyes was arrested when trying to leave the country by ship. He was questioned thoroughly, and it seems that our Mr Ponsonby and a banker from London called Fortescue will have to answer some very uncomfortable questions, soon.”

“Fortescue was in it, too?” John isn’t really surprised. He’s just glad Clara no longer works for the man.

Bradstreet nods. “Apparently, when Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby died, _our_ Mr Ponsonoby found a diary among his late uncle’s personal belongings. It was written in some sort of code, but he managed to break it and figured out that Prescott’s stuff was hidden somewhere in _The Veteran’s House_. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t lay hand on it, as it was bequeathed to Mr Garbler, who moved in immediately.”

“But how does Reyes come into the game?” Bill asks.

“As Mr Holmes said: he was a low-ranking gang member in Florida,” Bradstreet explains. “It’s assumed that Prescott had a plan in his possession – sent him by Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby – that showed the exact place where his equipment was hidden in _The Veteran’s House_ as well as the access to it. Both Reyes and Evans were after this plan – and it seems that Evans was the one to find it.”

“Do you think he killed Prescott for it?” Bill presses on, eager to learn the whole truth.

The sergeant shakes his head. “No. According to the _post mortem_ done in Winchester, Prescott died of natural cases: a weakened heart due to malnourishment and his previous injuries. No, I think Evans must have found the plan somewhere earlier; my guess would be at one of the times he visited the house while you and the young folks were sorting out Mr Garbler’s collection. I’m afraid we’ll never learn the truth about that little detail.”

“And Reyes?” John asks. “Did he really murder my uncle?”

Bradstreet nods grimly. “Oh, yes. He confessed after Detective Inspector Lestrade had a little chat with him at the Yard. He states it was an accident; that he only wanted to scare the old man into giving him the plan.”

“But Mr Garbler didn’t _have_ the plan!” Miss Morstan points out logically. “He probably didn’t even know it existed.”

“True,” the sergeant allows,” but Reyes had no way to know that. So he turned to _our_ Mr Ponsonby after Mr Garbler’s death, and the two decided to work on the case together; trying to find a legal way to get into the house and search it.”

“Were there truly other people sent by Reyes to the house who never returned?” John asks. “Or have Doc and Leon dreamed that?”

“Oh, no,” Bradstreet says. “Two local thugs from Andover have been missing for a couple of years, and there are hints that they might have been connected to Reyes in some way. I won’t be surprised if we found their bodies either somewhere near the house or in the small wooded area just outside the village.”

“And who killed them?” Miss Morstan asks. “Prescott or Evans?”

“My money would be on Evans,” Bradstreet replies. “He was a pro; killing someone in cold blood wouldn’t have meant a thing to him. Of course, Prescott _might_ have killed them in self-defence, just as he killed Manolo Gomez; but Evans is the more likely candidate.”

John knows in agreement. It is a known fact that white collar criminals usually aren’t violent – unless they are cornered. Or drugged up to their eyeballs; and Prescott wasn’t known as a junkie, according to Sherlock.

“So, what happens now?” he asks.

Bradstreet grins broadly. “Well, apparently I’m getting promoted.”

“Congratulations,” several people present say automatically in unison; then John asks:  
“Based on this case?”

Bradstreet nods. “It seems Mr Holmes told my superiors that my contribution was vital in solving the case – whatever his reasoning might be.”

“He didn’t lie,” John says. “You had all the local knowledge, you had the right suspicions – all you needed was some solid evidence.”

“Which I couldn’t find on my own,” the sergeant reminds him sourly.

“Oh, don’t feel bad about it, Sergeant,” Mrs Hudson intervenes. “Sherlock helps out the Yard all the time; and he never takes the credit. It’s the puzzle that attracts him; he doesn’t care for the fame,” she gives John a motherly smile. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to move in, Doctor Watson. Sherlock needs somebody to ground him, and you seem to be the sitting down type.”

"Sometimes,” John doesn’t want to shatter the old lady’s illusions. She appears to genuinely _like_ Sherlock, which means the madman must have some redeeming qualities. But the truth is, what John hopes from the association with the eccentric detective is the end of his current boring, pointless existence; a chance to do something _meaningful_ again.

Something _exciting_.

And if it proves to be dangerous, well, he’s used to _that_ , too.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the next day John goes to Stockbridge, where he and Justin sign the contract – under the wary eye of the older Mr Parker-Smythe – and thus _The Veteran’s House_ becomes Justin’s property in exchange of a reasonable sum of money, half of which is paid in advance, the other half due in monthly instalments during the next two years. They are both quite content with the agreement, which enables Justin to move out from under his mother’s suffocating control and eventually marry Kate Bradstreet. The latter is planned for when Kate starts studying law and John is invited to the wedding in advance. The only person decidedly unhappy with those plans is Mr Parker-Smythe senior, but there is little he can do about it.

On their way out John notices that the office of the estate agent is closed and briefly wonders what will become of Mr Ponsonby’s employees now. He hopes that the resolute Miss Noble will have sufficient means to tide her over until a new owner comes along. It would be a shame if the employees had to pay the price for Mr Ponsonby’s shady business activities.

After that, he packs the few things he’s brought with him to Nether Wallop, takes his leave of Mrs Holding, who clearly hates to see him go (“It was so good to have a doctor in the house, just in case,” she explains innocently) and promises Mrs Hudson to show up at 221B Baker street as soon as he’s got the rest of his affairs in order. He promises Bradstreet to email him if he learns any more details about their case, and the Sergeant-soon-to-be-Inspector promises the same.

The only thing left is to say his good-byes to Miss Morstan; something he finds himself strangely reluctant to do. Surprisingly enough – or perhaps not – she seems to share his reluctance. At the moment, however, they have no other choice.

“Perhaps one day, when you’ve got your own practice, I’ll come to London and work for you,” she says and laughs at his surprise. “I am a trained nurse, you know. That’s how I ended up in Nether Wallop. I came here as the carer for Mrs Holding when she broke her ankle. Then I got a job at the local school, teaching science, as no actual teacher was willing to come here… and I had nowhere to go.”

“I’d certainly enjoy working with you,” John admits. “But if you want to wait till I get a practice of my own you’ll waste your entire life waiting, I’m afraid.”

She gives him a dimpled, slightly mischievous smile. “Well, then I’ll have to find another excuse to come after you, won’t I?” she laughs, leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “Go and get your life together, John. Right now, I’m not the person you need for that. But perhaps one day…”

“I’ll stay in touch,” John promises, and he means it. As a rule he’s lousy at it but for her, he’ll try. She’s nothing like the women he has had short-lived flings with in the past – and it has nothing to do with her rather plain looks. She’s an adventurer at heart; Nether Wallop won’t be able to keep her forever, either.

And thus the hour of departure arrives inevitably. John shakes hands with everyone and climbs into Bill’s Land Rover (the Missus decided to go back a day earlier, after all), and when they leave the little village, he doesn’t look back at _The Veteran’s House_ at all. He looks forward, literally and figuratively: to a life in London again, under the same roof with the world’s only consulting detective.

He hopes it will be an exciting life; one where he’ll be able to make a difference again.

“And so it begins,” he murmurs quietly.

The noise of the engine swallows the sound of his words but he doesn’t expect Bill to answer anyway. He has the feeling that this is one of the most important turns in his life and cannot wait to see what it will bring.

~The End~

Soledad Cartwright@11.03.2017.


End file.
